


Dancing With The Devil

by ThePreciousHeart



Category: U2
Genre: Alter Egos, Celebrity Crush, F/M, Gen, Not a Mary Sue, Song Lyrics, Touring, Unrequited Love, Will They or Won't They?, Zoo TV Tour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 01:59:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 44
Words: 226,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePreciousHeart/pseuds/ThePreciousHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marieke Lang, a huge U2 fan, gets the thrill of her life when she is contacted by Mr. MacPhisto on the second night of U2's Zooropa Tour. After attending a show and meeting the band, she is offered the chance to go on tour with them, and quickly falls in love with lead singer Bono. Will he ever return her affections?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Phone Girl

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written in 2011 and originally posted on the U2 fan forum Interference. Much of what I wrote was copy-pasted directly from that site to this one, which accounts for the random highlighted words here and there (I had to search for it and all search terms appeared highlighted). It was my first real fanfiction and I'm always going to be proud of the work I put into it.

       “Okay, shift’s over. You know what to do from here, right?”

       I nod. I’ve been at this job for quite a while- why _wouldn’t_ I know what to do? A smile is shot my way. “Well, enjoy your night! Goodbye everybody!” And with that I am left utterly alone.

       Any normal night, I wouldn’t care to be alone at the airport. But tonight… if only the shift wasn’t at night. If only it wasn’t extended. If only I didn’t have the most boring job in the world, mindlessly taking calls with nothing to distract me.

       If only it hadn’t been tonight…

       There’d been only two chances previously. Last time they hit Rotterdam I was out of money, in a sort of financial crisis. I don’t know what I’d done with myself, but by the time I got it sorted out they’d left Holland and were too far away to get myself to another show. Last night was Lina’s turn to go. We’d both gotten tickets for separate nights, so we could compare the changes in the set, if any. But I was forewarned just this morning…

       “Hey, Marieke, you couldn’t be too troubled to take an extended shift tonight? One of our workers is going to be out of town. Yeah, I know- called at a very short notice. Could it be possible for you to take her shift? Thank you…”

       And so, you see, I’d gotten myself ensnared into the trap. Not wanting to cause problems, I’d agreed- and only after hanging up the phone did I explode. Everyone at work had known about this night for weeks! Didn’t some people understand that your favorite band can be more important than your job?

       Well. That line of thinking was probably what had gotten me into the crisis in the first place. I sigh and listlessly pick up the phone, which has even now been ringing. “Thank you for calling KLM Airlines, how may I help you?”

       The phone girl. What a boring, boring job. I’ve never realized how tedious it could get until tonight. I wonder if Lina is enjoying herself.

       Seeing U2 two nights in a row- how could that _not_ be heaven? I’d stayed up late last night waiting for Lina to come home so she could tell me all about the concert. When she did…

       “MARIEKE!” I started as the door was flung open wide and in raced a girl I barely recognized as my roommate. She’d been wearing a gray sweatshirt when she left the apartment at seven thirty, and came back at nine wearing a Zoo TV Tour shirt. I stared for a moment at the faces on her belly, wondering if I should talk to them instead of her.

       Lina was beyond excited. “Oh man, girl! The concert! It was incredible, I tell you. INCREDIBLE!”

       Yes, yes. I’d heard all about the insanity of Zoo TV. Never personally experienced it, y’know, but some things can’t be helped…

       “What was it like?” I’d asked.

       Lina’s face was shining, her eyes ablaze. “I can’t begin to describe it,” she said. _“Much_ different from the Joshua Tree tour, let me tell you that…! Oh, god. Information overload…” She flopped across the couch on her back.

       Might I have forgotten to mention that Lina has seen U2 live before?

       I’d tried to listen to her recount, I truly had, but it was so hard to understand her when she spoke at such a rapid pace. The most I got from it was something about endless guitar solos, subliminal messages, and whatever a _macphisto_ happens to be…

       “Stop,” I said. “Stop right there. What did you say?”

       Her eyes flicked open. “Gosh, Marieke, you need to be prepared for this one! You remember The Fly and that mirrorball person, right?”

       Of course. Who would forget those crazy personalities I had heard about in reviews of shows and seen dancing across my TV in brief snatches of U2-related news? I was fascinated by this new take on U2, how Bono wasn’t even himself anymore. I hadn’t been able to wait for my show…

       “You’re going to _love_ this,” Lina gushed on. “There’s a new persona hitting the stage- and _I_ have witnessed his debut.”

       My eyes had popped wide. Lina wasn’t kidding. Her innocent baby blues spoke nothing but the truth. “Three personas?”

       “Not three, silly. I suppose the Mirrorball Man’s done something wrong, it looks like we won’t be seeing _him_ again. Now there’s just The Fly and…” Her next words came out in a rushed murmur. “Mr. MacPhisto…”

       Confused, I asked, “Who is he?”

       Lina’s eyelids were sinking again. “He’s… oh; he’s like the devil on stage, Marieke. You’re going to love your show…” She said nothing for a while after that, and I realized she was asleep.

       So how the hell had I ended up _here?_ Up at the airport when I should be at a U2 show? “You’re so useless,” I mutter under my breath. “Couldn’t have been a bad girl for once and told him no…”

       I’d had no choice but to give away my ticket. I couldn’t think of a better recipient for it than Lina, who, though she insisted she was too worn out from last night to see Zoo TV again, was personally thrilled. I forced myself to be happy for her, but the disappointment is a knot in my stomach. This wasn’t fair….

       The night wears on mercilessly. The phone rings endlessly. I pick it up every time but then get disgusted. Why I should I give anyone comfort from my torment? And who would want a plane at this hour anyway…

       The phone is ringing, ringing, ringing… I answer it unhappily. Right in middle of my talking, however- in the middle of a call I’m handling pretty well- a new call comes in. Annoyed, I let the automated message play while I finish my answer.

       “KLM Reserveringen. This is KLM Reservations. There is one call ahead of you. Please hold the line. Thank you.” Music begins to play. I continue my call, assuring the lady on the other end that there’s no way she can a get a plane to Australia at this time in the night.

       “Everybody is still busy. Please hold the line…” I wonder who’s calling that they could be so urgent for assistance. Finally the Australia call wraps up and I take the one caller on hold.

       “Good evening,” I say in English, my voice taking on a false cheery tone.

       The caller on the other end speaks in an odd British accent. “Hello, good evening, do you speak English?” There’s the sound of some loud noise coming from behind him… like a large number of people talking at once.

       I’m taken a bit aback at this question. “Well- yes, sir,” I answer. “What is your name? May I help you?”

       “My name is Mr. MacPhisto, and I’m looking to leave, uh, Amsterdam tonight-“

       What. The. Hell?


	2. Secondhand Serenade

       The phone in my hand continues to speak to me, but I’m not really listening. All I can think is, _REALLY?!_

This call has to be from the Rotterdam show tonight. How else to explain the name- Mr. MacPhisto? But why would Bono be calling the airport? My mind speeds frantically ahead, my body reacting to the shock.

       Suddenly the realization dawns on me that the other end of the phone is still occupied. I grip the phone and hang on as if my life depends on it, listening intently.

       “…would that be possible?” The bizarre British accent is inquiring about a flight. I’ve missed hearing where he wants to go. I blurt, “Your show… where’s… next?!” Normally I wouldn’t be this bad at English, but the shocking call is disturbing my ability to speak.

       The voice on the other ends laughs a bit. “My show? …Why, what do you mean, darling?”

       That’s it. I am done for. I take leave of my senses and ask, “Where do you want to go?”

       “Well… well, have you nowhere exotic, like Singapore?”

       The next show’s in _Singapore?_ “Why do you want to go there?” I ask boldly. Not waiting for an answer, I say, “Is that the next show? I… I…”

       The man saves me. “Why look! I _am_ quite famous there… do you know who I am, young lady?”

       Mr. MacPhisto or Bono? I’m not sure which name to use. “Maybe… you’re…”

       Cutting me off, he replies, “Because I know who you are. I know you probably even better than you know yourself.”

       Before my scrambled wits can gather together long enough to think of a response, there’s an enormous cheer from the crowd. And I suddenly realize that I have an audience much bigger than I can imagine.

       “Oh, I… I don’t know…” I falter. “Um… do you still want the flight?”

       “The flight? Oh, of course, of course. Might there be someplace sunny I can go to?”

       I try to remember the weather forecasts. “Oh, I’m not sure about that… but tomorrow it is to be sunny right here, in Holland!”

       Of course, as I speak these words the crowd lets out another big cheer.

       “Well, that’s what they said about last night, but it rained; I _ruined_ my hair!”

      Picturing Bono’s dyed black hair, I have to laugh. And then I speed off with, “You’re fantastic!”

       “Oh, and- and so are you, darling!” he says to me, sending thrills tingling throughout my body. “I think we could be great together!”

       “Yes-“ I stutter. “Tonight-“

       He continues, “You’re a nice young lady. What is your name?”

       “M-Marieke!” I blurt again.

       “Would you like for me to sing you a song, Marieke?”

       That’s IT! Bono is going to sing a song now, just for _me…?!_ In euphoria, I answer, “Oh that would be nice!”

       “If you just stay on the line now, there’s a good girl-“ Suddenly the band strikes up. In those few seconds I manage to remember one important fact. “Lina! Hey, Lina, are you there! This is Marieke…” I stop as Mr. MacPhisto begins to sing. I know this song! Ultraviolet!

       _Sometimes I feel like- I don’t know_

_Sometimes I feel like checking out_

I join in frantically. _“I wanna get it wrong, can’t always be strong. And love, it won’t be long…”_

The Edge’s riff blows me away. My breath literally stops for a moment, and as Mr. MacPhisto sings the next lines, tears come to my eyes.

       _“Oh sugar, don’t you cry, oh child wipe the tears from your eyes…”_

Oh, the irony.

                                      ***

       Before my extended shift is over, as I sit listlessly in the chair trying to decide if that really happened and wondering just how long I’d extended the concert with my call, the phone rings again. I snatch it up blankly. “Hello, thank you for calling KLM Airlines, how may I help you?”

       “Hello?” The new voice at the other end is a man, with an accent I can’t quite place. “Am I speaking to Marieke?”

       Well. What could it be now? “Yes, sir,” I answer.

       He laughs. “My name is Eric. I work for U2 on the Zoo TV Tour. Did you have any idea what was going on tonight?”

       Because my brain is already past any form of shock, I respond calmly, “I think so, sir.”

       “Oh. Are you a fan? I could kind of tell.”

       “Yes!” I exclaim. “Tonight was my show!” I want to tell him about the extended shift and Lina going for me, but the English words fail me.

       “What were you doing there, then?”

       “At… the airport?” I search for words. “Working…”

       There’s a smile in Eric’s voice as he says, “Well Marieke, your chance to see U2 hasn’t passed. I called to give you two VIP tickets for the next show, in…”

       “Singapore?” I cut in.

       Eric laughs. “No, in Rotterdam.”

       This makes more sense. At least it’s at home again. I say, “Thank you, sir. I would like the tickets.”

       “Okay. Just give me your address and they’ll be coming in the mail soon.”

       First I work out what he wants, and then I tell him where my apartment is.

       “Thank you, Marieke.”

       “You’re welcome. Have a good night.”

       “Goodbye.” The phone disconnects.

       I remain in my chair, mechanically hanging up the phone. Then finally the realization hits.

       Oh God! I’m going to get to see U2 for the first time. Just my luck that they decided to call the airport! Which makes me wonder, why did Bono want to go to Singapore anyway? I try to puzzle this out, and am still mulling over the night’s events when it’s time to go home.

       City lights wash over me in the darkness of night. I drive home slowly, still feeling that tonight has been a dream. Well, maybe it was… All I can remember of that call is cheering, a strange British accent, and the sweet sound of Ultraviolet.

       I’ve finally made my way to the flat. I take the stairs up to my room and wonder if Lina is still awake. Then I sigh. Of course she is. Thinking of how late she stayed out after the show last night, and now the added anticipation of me coming home…

       I stop and collect myself before entering.

       “MARIEKE!” And it’s like last night again, only this time I’m the one returning. Before I’ve even made it halfway to the couch she pummels me with questions- “What was it like? Did you have any clue what was going on? What do you think of what you heard?”

       “Stop.” I hold up a finger. “First, how was the rest of the show?”

       Lina rolls her eyes. “Like you can still care about that! I want to hear what happened at the airport. He _called_ you- like- God! Isn’t that the least bit exciting?”

       I believe Lina has reverted back to being a teenager.

       “Of course it is.”

       “What was the call like?”

       “Oh- Lina, you tell me. You heard it yourself. You were actually there.”

     And as for me, I am starting to doubt I was ever there. At the airport, I mean. My memory is hazy about the conversation on the phone- it feels like it hasn’t happened. It probably didn’t.

       “But Marieke!” Lina cuts in disturbing my foggy remembrance. “I only saw his end of the line! What was it like, being called?”

       “I- I don’t know.” In reality, it could have been any other call. “I did the same thing as usual…”

       “But when the first call finally finished, weren’t you shocked at all?”

       I was shocked then. I remember that now. Except how could it have meant anything truly to me, not knowing the person calling? After thinking it over at the airport and in the car, I had realized that whoever the caller was, he hadn’t answered to Bono. I can tell British accents and Irish accents apart. That was not his voice. So who _was_ this new persona?

       When Lina sees no response from me, she says, “It’s okay. You’re probably tired from tonight- I know _I_ am. Maybe we’ll be more coherent in the morning…” She yawns. “Come on, get off the couch. Let’s go to sleep.”

       “I can’t…” I insist. “I have to think for a bit…”

       Lina has probably noticed the direction my eyes are going. I’m glancing at the CD player, resting atop the TV.

       “Whatever. Just try not to wake me up with that, okay?” She slowly rolls onto the couch, and I scoot off to make room for her. I wait until I’m sure she’s asleep- it doesn’t take that long- and then I grab the CD player and settle myself down on the bed. I root around in the drawer on my nightstand and pull out Achtung Baby.

       CDs are smaller than records, thinner and easier to break. Their case is made of plastic; instead of the paper covers I’m used to on vinyl. This is the first product I’ve ever bought in CD form- probably the only one I will buy. Unless, of course, these things become popular…

       I skip the entire first half and head for The Fly. This has currently been my favorite song on the album. I wish I knew how to play guitar… Those effects rattle my brain in the most comforting way. And BAM- I remember. The long, tiresome night at the airport flickers back to me.

       Next song up. Mysterious Ways. I tremble waiting for the first chord. Then the lyrics hit and I’m sighing with pleasure, grooving silently in place. BAM- the phone call comes back to me. A call from the concert…

     And then once that song’s over, I skip over the following track and lie waiting for the tell-tale intro of the next. It begins and I hear the voice telling me not to cry, oh child, wipe the tears from your eyes…

       BAM. Realization hits me at last. I really did get a call from someone tonight, at the show I should have been attending. He sang a song for me. And I’m getting tickets.

       Forget The Fly. Ultraviolet is my new favorite on Achtung Baby.

       Lina snores in her sleep. I am brought back to the dark, silent flat. Silently I hit stop on the CD player and yank the plug out.

     Moonlight dances through the blinds, and the city noises lull me to a state of relaxation. I roll over, presuming I’ll never be able to sleep. But when I next open my eyes, the day has begun.

e able to sleep. But when I next open my eyes, the day has begun.


	3. Ready For What's Next

There are two tickets in the mailbox this morning.  
       I bring them inside withthe morning news and flip them out on the kitchen table. Lina halts in drinking her coffee and stares up at me witha _what-the-fuck_ expression on her face.  
       I swallow and say, “Do you want to see U2 again?”   
       She springs up and hugs me around theneck. “Where’d you get these?!”   
       Pleased that Lina likes it, I answer, “Some guy from the Zoo TV crew called me last night after the show ended, I guess…. He wanted to explain about theprevious call and he said he’d send me two VIP tickets.”   
       Personally I am surprised they’ve gotten here this fast. It makes me wonder if Eric went directly to my address instead of mailing it… but there’s a stamp on it.  
       Lina examines the tickets with a careful eye. “How are you possibly going to be able to go tonight? You have to work.”   
       Well. I haven’t thought of that yet. By the time I get out of work theshow will just be beginning. I’d never make it there in time.  
       “I can call in sick...”  
       “No,” Lina says, sighing. “You can’t miss any more of work. You still don’t have much money…”   
       “But I worked an extended shift last night!” I splutter. “And that was last year… Lina, don’t you want to see U2 as well?”   
       She takes a deep sip of her coffee before answering. Lina has to have her coffee every morning, although she dislikes the taste. I wait and watch her. She keeps one eye fixed on me.  
Finally she swallows and says, “I don’t think I can take three nights of Zoo TV.”   
       “But…” Lina raises one eyebrow. Suddenly I don’t want to continue. I say nothing else and sit down, pouring myself a bowl of cereal.  
     “Take someone from theairport if you want,” she murmurs, opening thepaper.  
       Wait…? What does she want?  
     “Um… do you want me to go tonight or not?” I ask, confused.  
     Lina slams thepaper down. “Oh, what the hell, Marieke! Go where you want to. Do whatever you want with those tickets. I really don’t care.” She gently raises thepaper again and resumes reading.  
     Now what? I am sitting here at the table, unsure of what to do. Finally I take a bite of my cereal. We finish breakfast in silence, and in my head I debate what I want to do withthe tickets. Obviously now I can’t go, if Lina won’t come with me…  
     As I put on my shoes to go out **t** he door, Lina asks, “What did you decide?”   
       “I know two coworkers who could use some enlightenment,” I mumble, and head out.  
     Down th **e** stairs. Out the door. Into the car withthe two tickets in my pocket. I drive down the road, thinking of nothing. The sun flashes in my face.  
       And here I am at the airport. I enter theworker’s door and stride through. It’ll be a long day here… good things I have alternating shifts.  
       My mind is turning as I take calls for the first half of **t** heday. I work two shifts at the airport, one in the morning and one at night. Usually thelater shifts belong to someone else, but last night was an exception.  
       I wonder if any of the other workers knew about thecall I got. I want to tell them, but they won’t understand. Lina is the only other U2 fan I know in Rotterdam. However, if the stadium was packed there must have been more fans out there… right?  
       Lina works as a secretary. You’d think that between us we’d have enough money for a house. Ah well, some things can’t come easy… Besides, I like my flat-mate.  
Then theday shift is over and I go home to eat lunch and chill. I still have not figured out what to do withthe tickets. Maybe I’ll know by tonight.  
                                     ***  
The workers are leaving their shifts as I enter the building again. They wave and say, “Hi, Marieke,” as I pass them.   
       Lina didn’t come home for lunch. I haven’t seen her since this morning. Where is she? Maybe she went to eat downtown. I groan and sit in my chair. By now **t** he tickets are burning a hole in my pocket.  
       Who to give them to? I’m sure that Lina doesn’t want to go. I don’t want to see this show without her. But I know no other U2 fans who would appreciate the tickets.   
       Damn you, Eric!  
       And before I know it, after a short time of taking calls someone else comes in and is standing over me. “Ahem.”   
       I look up and realize my shift is over. It’s the woman who didn’t come in last night. “Oh, sorry! Didn’t notice you.” I pack up and head out from thedesk. As she settles herself down, inspiration strikes.  
       “Hey, Monique, you know the U2 show last night?”   
       She looks up. “Hm?”   
       “My favorite band, you know, they played here last night? I was wondering, would you like two tickets for their next concert? It’s tonight. I got them this morning and don’t know what to do with them.”   
       Monique looks on calmly. “What about you and Lina?”   
       “I don’t think Lina wants to go,” I say.  
The phone rings. Monique picks it up and answers with downcast eyes. I wait for her to finish.  
       Then she hangs up and says, “Well, they’re _your_ favorite band.”   
       I am about to say something else when suddenly I forget my words as her own sink in. She’s right. I’ve never seen U2 live myself. Why am I giving my chance away?  
       “True,” I sigh. My mind is getting confused again. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I begin to head out.  
       As I leave, yet another thought occurs to me, and I reenter and tell Monique, “You missed the phone call from the show last night.”   
       “Huh? What?” Monique is busy now. She absently raises one eye to my face.  
       “Oh, never mind,” I snap, and leave her.  
       Driving home, I once again think about Lina. She’ll be home now. I don’t know what she wants me to do. Why won’t she come to the next show with me? I don’t think there’s any reason to say no.  
       Now I’ve reached the flat and am in the elevator. I think: _I don’t have to give away both tickets. They don’t even have to be used._  
       I open **the** door and walk in silently. Lina is making dinner. She turns around when my shoes hit the wood floor.  
       “Here you are.” Her voice is welcoming me back. I smile and sit down on **the** couch.  
       “Did you ever decide what to do withthe tickets?”   
       “Yes.” I clear my throat. “I’m going. Are you sure you can’t stand to see Zoo again?”   
       “Well…” Lina pauses in her work and turns around fully, propping herself up onto **the** counter. I note the knife in her hand that she abruptly sets down.  
       “I’m not going to let you go alone, you know.”   
       “Lina. Do you want to come or not?”   
       Her voice is soft. “As I see, you have two choices. Not go, or go with me.”   
       And with that, it looks like I’m going.  
       “Thanks, Lina.”   
       “It’s okay.” She jumps down and returns to her food. “Here, put this away for me, will you?”   
       We hurriedly clean up, grab some snacks, and then are off on our way to see the greatest show on Earth.  
                                                       ***  
       Luck appears to be on our sides. There seems to have been some kind of delay at the stadium, so when we arrive the first opening act is just ending. Lina and I show our tickets and are seated instantly- right in front of the stage.  
       I’ve got an excellent view of the scene. We’re sitting in general admission, front row. Lina presses my hand as the band plays. I squeeze back, excitement filling my veins with adrenaline.   
The opening acts fly by- can’t remember who they are anyway- and then- the lights get dimmer. We sit together in silence as the rest of the audience murmurs, and then the screens light up, bringing me a shock that runs through my bones.  
       I’ve heard about Zoo TV. I know the basic concept. I remember that there are TV screens everywhere, showing all kinds of pictures. But I’m not fully prepared for the visual sensation that explodes from everywhere, assaulting me with sound and color.  
The confusion is excellent, stringing the most bizarre sequences into one. Lina squeals and nudges me, pointing out certain messages- she’s seen this show before. I lean back and take it all in, breathe the view into my skin.  
         Right now I can tell that I’m never going to get rewired again.  
       And then- the audience cheers and I gasp as a familiar face fills the screen. A drumbeat fills the air. No, not just one- two people are on stage now. No, _three!_ I know their names- The Edge, Adam Clayton, Larry Mullen. All as familiar as my own parents to me.  
       Without warning, the main screen fades to blue. And rising up to take their places in a circle, to my surprise, are the stars of the Flag of Europe. I blink, and with that a person rises up as well. The figure of a man is silhouetted against the screen now. The stars crack and fall back down the flag, disappearing. And The Edge tears into a riff I know by heart.  
Zoo Station…  
       The man moves. He stumbles backward, and I tense, thinking he’s hurt. But it turns out to be false, and he spins around, raises one leg, and launches into the best high kicks I have ever seen by any man or woman.   
       Cheers erupt. Lina’s voice is loud in my ear. But I can’t think yet.  
       The man goose steps his way into the spotlight- and now I can’t hold my screams of excitement back. He grabs the microphone in its stand, black leather outfit throwing the light back to us, and sings. “I’m ready; I’m ready for the laughing gas…”   
       The show has begun.  
       Lina and I know every song by heart. We sing along loudly and dance. Four fast songs go by, and then it’s time to sit down for the slow One. I catch my breath in my seat, head still spinning from the words on the screens and the closeness of the band. Bono is right in front of me now. I’m excited when he sings and try to catch his eye.  
       “One love, one life, when it’s one need in the night…”   
       Lina whispers to me, “Do you like it?”   
       I nod fast and hard.  
       Then the set speeds up again, and we’re on our feet once more. We dance our way through Until The End of the World, and then…  
       Suddenly my eyes are trained on Adam’s fingers on the bass as one note hits the air. Just that sliver of a note is enough to have me leaping up and screaming the same word Bono is singing- although our pitches are definitely different.  
       “YEEEEAAAAAAH!”  
 _Dum. Da da dum. Da da dum._ The piano plays.  
       “All is quiet on New Year’s Day…”  
       Lina settles and has her eyes on me, knowing this is my favorite song by U2. I sing along with all my heart. For a moment, my life has suspended.  
       “It’s true, it’s true, and we can break through! Turn into; we can be one…”  
       Then it’s over all too fast.   
       The next time any more excitement comes is a few songs later into the set. Lina’s back arches and she sits up straighter, eyes glued to the stage. I recognize the chords of her own favorite U2 song. Bono sings, “If you twist and turn away…”   
       We’re cheering. Lina sits quietly, transfixed. I watch as the song nears an ending, and Bono starts singing part of a song I don’t know. Then, towards the very end of that, he sings softly:   
       “All I want is you… all I want is you…”   
       The sentiment sounds like it’s meant for the entire audience. The crowd even seems to hush for a second. Then all of us- every single one of us- are standing and singing it back.  
         “YOOOUU! ALL I WANT IS- YOOUU!” I’m a bit breathless and sing badly. Lina has tears streaming down her face. I pray the magic will never stop.  
       But of course it does, and the set rushes forward. And then- just when I’m thinking the best part has passed-  
         An organ begins its unmistakable tones. Though I know what’s going to happen now, my shock is still strong when The Edge begins the riff. Cheering simply erupts from us all. Lina smiles and rises. She’s seen this song live plenty of times before now. But this is my first time, and I scream at the top of my voice when Bono begins to sing.  
       “I want to run, I want to hide. I wanna tear down the walls that hold me inside!” And the video screens bombard me with Joshua Tree era footage from the eighties.  
       I add my voice and it seems everyone in the stadium is singing along. Nothing can compare to the power of Where The Streets Have No Name. I’m out of my mind for the entire song, screaming my brains out and choking on the tears I can’t hold back.   
     My life, it would seem, is complete.  
       But this is not so. I haven’t seen the encores yet.


	4. Danse Macabre

Once Pride finishes and the band leaves the stage amidst much applause, I turn to Lina and ask, “What now?”   
       Her eyes zero in on me. “Here we’ll wait. The band will be back for the encores. Just watch.” She leans back in her seat and closes her eyes.  
       I watch. The screens show videos of fans who are now in the audience, confessing sins to the camera. I relax, waiting. And soon enough, the men start to walk back onto the stage. Larry behind the drums, Adam at his bass, The Edge holding his guitar…  
       And then they begin a song without Bono. As the riff for Desire zooms through my ears, I wonder what sort of an entrance he’ll have.  
       Lina’s eyes are open again, and she grabs my arm, startling me. “Marieke, you have to be ready for this-“ she whispers.  
       But it’s too late. Before Lina can say a word of warning to me, an unfamiliar man has taken the stage.  
       From my clear view of the show, I can take in every single detail of this man. He’s like no one I’ve ever seen before. He is decked out in a gold jacket and a ruffled red shirt beneath, and his face is pale, as white as snow. His red lips are curved upward into a knowing smile, seeming to say _I know something you don’t know._ And as I watch him come up to the front of the stage, to a spot just a few meters away from me, I spot the red pair of horns on his head.   
       He’s waving his arms, seeming to collect all the applause. Then with a showy flourish he raises the microphone in his hand to his lips and says in an unusual British accent, “Lover, I’m off the streets. Gonna go where the bright lights and the big city meet, with a red guitar on fire…”   
       We sing along, “DESIIIIRE!”  
       I’m fascinated. The voice is familiar. This is the man who called me on the phone. It must be Mr. MacPhisto.  
       He walks all along the front of the stage, and when he passes so close to me I tremble, suddenly afraid. I’ve got no reason to be frightened, but somehow being in this man’s presence is setting me on edge. He’s so beautiful, and yet so bizarre, so unknown.   
       “Desire…” Now the song is drawing to a close, and he whips out a harmonica. I’m thinking, _Can this man really play?_ And he surprises me. He presses the instrument to his lips and, standing right there, plays a little solo for us to finish off the song.  
       I immediately have to sit down. My head spins, and, clutching Lina’s hand, I can only think of one thing. _That was sexy…_  
       Then the man shouts at the top of his voice, and I jump. “I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your house down! I have a vision! I have a vision! What a night, what a show, what a life, what a job! I have a vision…”   
       He pauses.  
     “Eurovision.”   
       The song ends.  
       We leap our feet screaming and applauding. He smiles out into the crowd, simply drinking in the feedback. And I can’t help but notice that this MacPhisto character is looking more luscious than any other man I’ve ever seen.  
       “Eurovision!” he exclaims, delighted. “How are we all tonight, then?”   
       Lina takes one look at my face and busts up laughing. Her voice mingles with the cheer from the rest of the audience.  
       He grins and takes a step back. “I think you’re just about the most intelligent rock and roll audience, perhaps in the world. That’s because you _like_ me! Off with the horns, on with the show.” He reaches up and plucks the red horns off his head.  
         I cheer at that. He looks so beautiful. I want to touch him. He continues to speak in that interesting accent, and I continue to hang onto every word- never mind that the language difference is affecting my ability to understand him perfectly!  
       “Well, what a thing rock and roll turned out to be, then. What do you think of it, young lady? Do you think I’m exciting?” I gasp because I could swear he is asking this question to _me._ His piercing blue eyes zero in on my face, and no one else’s!  
       “Yes!” I try to say, but the crowd drowns me out.  
         He sighs and smiles up into the sky. “I was there when it started, you know. Way back in the 50’s, I had a great idea- African rhythm and European sense of melody. Put the two together and- shmooks! -we had a _very_ exciting movement. And we’ve come a long way, haven’t we?”   
         We scream, “YEAH!” even though his meaning is getting lost on me again. I just like to hear him speak in that voice…  
       “Everybody’s into it now. Lady Diana’s into it…” MacPhisto pauses and seems to see us again. “Do you think Queen Bea would be into it? Shall we give her a call and find out?”  
       The name Queen Bea is something I understand. I know who that is. And calling… I know what that is too. We all cheer. Mr. MacPhisto looks pleased with our response. He heads over to a part of the stage I haven’t noticed before, where there’s a telephone.   
       “Now you’ll have to be a little patient .Sometimes she’s quite hard to get through. She’s a busy girl, you know- so am I.” I’m not sure if I’ve mistaken it, or if MacPhisto just called himself a girl. I like it anyway. There’s the unmistakable sound of a dial tone as he punches in the numbers.  
       “Oh-seven-oh, three-five-six, four-zero-zero,” he murmurs, and looks back at the crowd. “And who says I don’t give out my famous friend’s phone numbers? We’re all kind of family here, aren’t we?”   
       Family- I like that! As we cheer for him, the phone line suddenly picks up and a man’s voice is heard.  
      “Hello?” MacPhisto says back.  
       “Yes?” the man answers gruffly, in Dutch.  
       “Hello, I wish to speak with Queen Beatrix… Hello?” MacPhisto is so intent on the phone. I’ve never seen Bono look like that.  
       “Yeah, I’ve said hello.” Obviously the man is annoyed. I pity him for not being a U2 fan who would understand.  
       “Do you speak any English?” MacPhisto inquires.  
     “Little bit,” is the response.  
       Is it just me, or does MacPhisto’s voice sound a tad bit desperate? “If- if you could just be patient with me, I’m- I’m- um, I’m here with a few friends, and we’re just trying to find out… we’re just trying to find out if Queen Beatrix is a fan of rock and roll. Do you think she’d like rock and roll music, or would it be, perhaps, too _loud_ for her…” My heart goes out to this lost soul. “Hello?” he finishes weakly.  
       The click tells us all that the man has hung up. We boo at the phone. How dare anyone hang up on this man?  
       But he doesn’t seem all that disappointed. “Well now! The last time a royal hung up on me I set the House of Windsor into flames!”   
       My face must betray my shock. And Ultraviolet begins.  
       “Sometimes I feel like I don’t know, sometimes I feel like checking out…”   
       I’ve never seen Bono or MacPhisto or anyone performing this song. I’ve only ever heard it on my CD. But now, as he sings down the telephone line, a lump begins to rise in my throat. He looks suddenly sobered, and his voice is amazing.  
       As Edge goes into the riff, MacPhisto hangs up the phone and begins walking back on the stage. He lifts the microphone and sings, slowly walking past, “Oh, sugar, don’t you cry. Oh, child, wipe the tears from your eyes. You know I need you to be strong, and the day is dark as the night is long…”   
       Desire was fun and games. Now, in the course of a few minutes, everything has changed. With Ultraviolet, the realization appears to have come that something is terribly wrong here.       MacPhisto’s expression speaks for itself as he sings to us, “Baby, baby, baby, light my way.”  
It’s a bit of a wonder that I make it through the song without crying. The beauty is unreal. But just as I’m applauding myself inwardly for that, a new song begins and all my hope is gone.   
With or Without You…  
       Now, if Ultraviolet looked more serious, With or Without You surely takes the cake for most. It’s as if by now MacPhisto has not only realized something is wrong, but there’s nothing he can do about it either. I tremble as he sings.  
       “See the stone set in your eyes; see the thorn twist in your side. I wait for you…”   
We’re all cheering but he doesn’t even seem to care. He’s hugging himself, singing.  
“Sleight of hand and twist of fate, on a bed of nails she makes me wait. And I’m waiting for you…”   
      Lina squeezes me this time  
       “With or without you… with or without you.” He repeats the phrase in an almost melancholy manner and walks down, out towards the B-stage.  
       “Through the storm we reach the shore, you give it all but I want more. And I’ll wait… without you.” My heart is breaking.  
       He looks up and focuses into the distance. “With or without you… with or without, my love.” My trembles turn to shakes as he says that. “I can’t live… with or without you. With or without you…”   
      Suddenly he gathers strength and almost seems to spit the next words. “Yeah, you.”   
       I watch with near silence, comparable to the noise of the crowd around me, as he crosses around the B-stage and all across the sides. I turn so I can keep my eyes on his face. Tears are welling up again but I blink them back.  
       “And you give yourself away, and you give yourself away… and you give…” He looks down, leaning forward, and then suddenly pulls back. “And you give… and you give yourself away!”   
      Lina and I and everyone else around us are singing. My voice is getting choked again. I know my face must be twisting into all sorts of shapes.  
       “My hands are tied.” Suddenly he swings his face back towards us, and I let out a nearly audible gasp. I can see it- MacPhisto is in _pain._ He is singing this song to the lot of us, telling the _fans_ that he can’t live with or without them.  
       “And you give yourself away, and you give yourself away! And you give, and you give, and you…give…yourself…away…” It appears to be causing him some stress to sing this. “With or without you, with or without you, oh… I can’t live with or without you!”   
      And I realize that his desperation has given way to despair. He clutches the microphone as if it’s a life preserver and howls, “OOOOHH OH OH OH… OOOH OOH OH OH… OOOOH OOH OH OOOOH… oh, oh…”   
       When that’s over, I’m left breathless and teary. No song has ever brought out such strong emotions in me before. The song’s meaning has come to new levels in my mind.  
       I think it can’t get any more devastating than that. But then an organ begins to play… and I begin to cry. Leaning on Lina, I let the sobs shake me quietly as the next song begins.  
       MacPhisto has first gone through realizing something is wrong, and then realizing he can’t do anything about it. Now I see that he’s resigned himself to that fate. He’s going to let himself go. It doesn’t even matter anymore.  
       “Love is blindness, I don’t wanna see. Won’t you wrap the night around me? Take my heart… it’s blindness.”   
       The song that ends Achtung Baby sweeps us all away. I have a feeling I’m not the only one crying. Wiping my eyes, I turn again to watch MacPhisto slowly return to the main stage.  
       Lina only has eyes for The Edge- she adores the guitar work on this song, not to mention the fact that she thinks he’s hot. But I keep my gaze on MacPhisto, and though he’s farther away from me I think I can read his expression. His eyes are two crystal clear pools of absolute pain. Once again, I am struck by the fact that Bono would never look like that.  
       “Squeeze the handle…” He shapes his hand like a gun and hoists it up. “Blow out the candle…” he murmurs, mock-firing into the crowd. The invisible force of the trigger throws him back a little.   
       “Love is blindness,” he finishes.  
       I don’t understand every word of this song, but I do know those ones. And suddenly he’s back on the main stage, and The Edge is playing a stunning solo that kills me every time I hear it. MacPhisto gives the audience one glance and then bends over, reaching into the crowd. I let out a squeak because he is so _close._  
       And then- it happens. MacPhisto’s hands close over no one else’s but mine. I stare up at him with shock, and he pulls me forward. Lina sees what is happening and gives me a boost, and all at once I am on the Zoo TV stage in MacPhisto’s arms.  
       I need air. My breath seems to have been stolen by this devil. I nestle against him, aware that I’ll never get this close to him again. Might as well make the most of it… I raise my arms, trying to move them so I can slip my hands under his jacket, maybe even under his shirt…  
       But just as I’m preparing to do that very thing, MacPhisto squeezes my arms into place. I can’t move them around now. I struggle, and he whispers in a very different voice, “Calm down, just listen to the music…” That’s not MacPhisto’s voice. No, this accent is Irish. It’s Bono speaking.  
       I pull back so I can see his face. And instead of seeing the bleak, hopeless expression in his eyes from before, I notice that he looks kind of tense. He’s watching me closely, on edge, ready to stop me if I get out of control.  
       For a slim second, I remember that MacPhisto isn’t a different person from Bono. Bono’s just wearing a new outfit.  
     I lay my head back down on his shoulder and he gently spins me around. It’s slow, but building. This close to his body, I can see the sweat on his neck. I bite down to restrain my tongue from going places it shouldn’t.  
       Then I remember the phone call.  
       I reach my lips up to MacPhisto’s ear, unlock my teeth, and whisper, “You telephoning me yesterday night.” I use English so he’ll understand, though it’s not my best try.  
       “Hm?” he whispers back.  
       “Me… at the airport,” I tell him. I peer in at his face to see what he thinks, if he remembers.  
       The Edge finishes his solo. MacPhisto and I are standing together, alone on the stage. His hands clasp mine, pull me into him. A little kiss is lightly planted on my cheek. And then, suddenly, he releases me. I stumble back and he dips his head, acknowledging that I should go. I do and am pulled back into the audience by Lina, who is screaming something in my ear- can’t make out her words.  
       MacPhisto raises the microphone back to his lips and sings for us all. “Love is blindness, I don’t wanna see. Won’t you wrap the night around me? Oh, my love…”  
       He leans in, mouth quite close to the mic.  
     “Blindness,” he finishes, in a voice nearly a murmur.  
       The response is deafening.  
       I think my voice is gone. Yet I scream along all the more. MacPhisto stares at us, and begins to sing one last song.  
       “Wise men say, only fools rush in. But I can’t help falling in love… with…you.”   
       He walks backward, and I automatically reach out, searching for his soul.  
       “Shall I stay?” he muses. “Would it be a sin? If I can’t help… falling in love… with you.”   
       The storm has passed. MacPhisto has realized what he’s resigned himself too isn’t all that bad… as long as he walks the line between too much and not enough, he can keep this pleasure.  
     “Like a river flows to the sea, so it goes: some things were meant to be.” He suddenly stops walking and bends over, clutching the microphone tightly.  
       “Take my hand, take my whole life too! But I can’t help… falling in love… with… you.” His voice simply soars up into the falsetto to gently caress those high-up notes. I don’t think even I could sing that range.  
       “But I can’t help… falling in love with you.” He’s begun his walk again, singing at the same slow pace.  
     “But I can’t help…” A whim overtakes him and he points the microphone out to us.  
       We join in. “Falling in love with you!”   
       “But I can’t help…” His face brightens as he hears us singing. “Falling in love with you!” we finish. And this radiant smiles lights up his entire face. I understand what this is. It’s a peaceful smile, a delighted smile, a sign that MacPhisto is glad we love him. He’s twisted his own words on us.  
       He ducks his head as he softly murmurs, “Elvis is still in the building.” With a final wave to us, the showy pop star is gone from the Zoo TV stage. Slowly but surely, the band follows suit.  
We wait a while, beginning to quiet just a smidgen. Then one final message runs across the screens.  
       THANK YOU FOR SHOPPING AT ZOO TV.  
     Cue the endless applause.


	5. The V.I.P.

       Though most people get up and leave immediately, Lina and I stay together, fingers locked, eyes staring unblinkingly into each other’s. One of us has seen this before. The other has not. One of us has danced with the Devil tonight. The other has not. I have a feeling that this alienation might put a wedge between us, one we can never remove. Lina will never know the experience.  
       Finally she blinks and says, “We can discuss it in the car.” I don’t know what this “it” is that we have to “discuss,” and I don’t want to wait for the car to find out. I am about to open my mouth and demand we discuss whatever it is here, but the sudden force of people leaving their seats is too much. There’s a pile up of people trying to get out of our row, and it’s caused by my legs blocking the path. With a sigh, Lina stands and says, “Come on.” I rise up exhaustedly and follow her out.   
       Only… we’re not getting out. There are so many people leaving the stadium that I kind of get lost in the rush. And before I know it, the girl standing beside me isn’t Lina.   
       I crane my neck around. “LINA!” I shout, hoping she’ll hear me. But the chitchat of the people is too loud and drowns out my cry to a degree. I turn my head at every sign of blond hair… but it’s never her. We’ve become separated, and I don’t know which way is out.  
       Some women I thrust past give me glares dripping with jealousy. Don’t they know, I didn’t _ask_ to be taken up on stage? I figure it’s best to surround myself with people from the back row who wouldn’t have seen me clearly and plunge into the crowd.  
       After getting turned around countless times, I find myself near the edge of the stage. Somehow it doesn’t look as impressive without all those screens lit up. The stadium is clearing out and I still haven’t found Lina. Where is she?! Desperately, I scream. Someone’s got to hear me…  
       And a man comes at me, face to face. “Hey now, what’s up?” He speaks in English, and I can clearly hear his concern. His green eyes peer worriedly into mine.  
       “I can’t find Lina!” I gasp in Dutch. He looks confused. That’s when I notice the rumpled outfit he has on is that of the Zoo TV tour crew. And his voice becomes familiar at last through my ears.   
       “Eric?” I blurt.  
       Recognition flashes across his face. “Marieke?”   
       Suddenly my search for Lina has headed down an entirely different path- and I do believe it’s a good one.  
       He breaks into a smile. “Hey, good to see you! How’d you like the show?”   
       Despite myself, I grin back. “It was good. I like Zoo TV.”   
       “Glad to hear that!” His smile becomes broader. “Hey, how’d you like to come backstage with me? The band’s getting ready to head out, but I bet we could catch up with one of them.”   
       First I figure out his words. Then I decide that plans to find Lina will have to be postponed for a moment. I hope she’ll understand…  
       Eric turns and we walk off together. He casually slings an arm around my shoulders. I move slowly, trying to take in all sights.  
       “Where are you from?” I ask Eric as we travel behind the stage.   
     “Me? I’m from America. Are you from around here?”   
       “Yes,” I answer, my eyes widening. They’re dismantling the stage setup already. It makes me sad to see the spectacle I’ve just witnessed disappearing in only a matter of hours.   
       Catching my gaze, Eric says, “Don’t worry. This stage will be back… in Lisbon. That’s the next show.” He chuckles.  
       Reaching backstage, I am overwhelmed by the crew. Eric approaches one man and asks,   “Do you know where the band’s gone off to?”   
       “Oh, yeah. Last time I saw them, they were still in the dressing rooms.” The man catches sight of me and his eyes pop. I watch them roam over my body, his gaze settling firmly on my waist and flickering back up to my boobs. I sigh. When will all men get over my looks?  
       “Okay, thanks.” As we walk on Eric says to me, “That means we’ll have to wait for them to come out. You can wait, can’t you?”   
       “Oh, yes,” I respond. I never asked for this… and now I am unsure of what to do. What will happen when the band comes out? What will they say? What can I do that will impress them for as long as our meeting lasts?  
       We stand outside the doors and wait. And then, without warning, one of them bursts open. I am face to face withThe Edge.  
       My shock is great. Even in the front row, I wasn’t _this_ close to the famed guitarist! He nods and says, “Hey, Eric.” Then his eyes zero in on me. “Hello, who are you?”  
Someone’s poured cement on my tongue. I can’t get it to move. Eric places his hands on my shoulders, somehow sensing I haven’t the power to speak, and introduces me. “This is Marieke. It wouldn’t be a problem if we could see the rest of the band? I told her she could meet you guys.”   
       The Edge eyes me with warmth. I take pleasure in the fact that he doesn’t appear interested in my body. “That wouldn’t be a problem at all,” he tells us. He walks down the little hall, motioning for me to follow. Eric comes along without any prompting.  
       As we walk, I keep my eyes on Edge’s body, marveling at how close he is. He seems relaxed, pleased after the show. There’s nothing to suggest that he was just onstage moments before.  
       The Edge opens a door and, without looking at the door or anything around it, I enter. Eric is right behind me, probably ready to restrain me if I go crazy or something.  
       Someone’s sitting in this room, his back to us. A familiar Irish accent pours into the air, responding to something I haven’t seen- “Jeez, Edge, you scared me sneaking in here like that!” He turns around, and I see dazzling blue eyes, white face makeup that’s in the process of being scrubbed off, and black hair hanging limp in tufts around this man’s face. MacPhisto is disappearing, Bono is setting in.  
       “Can’t help it if you don’t hear me,” Edge says. “We’ve a visitor.” He steps back and lets Bono see me.  
       Bono’s eyes snap open and closed. “And who might you be?” he asks, gesturing to me.  
       I decide to do the introduction myself this time. “I’m Marieke Lang. You danced with me tonight.”   
       “Oh!” Those expressive blue eyes widen, and Bono breaks into a relaxed smile. “I thought that was you. You must have a talent for being at the right place, at the right time!”  
         This is definitely true. Did he understand about the phone call?   
         “I love that!” I tell him. Still smiling, he adds, “Glad to hear it! How did you enjoy the rest of the show?”   
       I struggle with my limited English. “You were good. I liked the songs. Zoo TV is… good.” If only I knew how to say _amazing, mind-blowing, insane_ in English!  
       “Just good?” His eyes sparkle. “Here, have a seat, will you?” He gestures to the chair in front of him.  
       I move to sit down, and Eric takes his place behind the seat. I wish he’d leave me alone. I think I can control myself. Edge moves to take another chair. Bono turns back to the mirror.  
         “Hmm…” Bono sighs as he removes the makeup. “What was your favorite part of the show, Marieke? Besides the obvious, I mean…”   
       I whisper to Eric, “What did he say?”   
       “Just… what was your favorite part of the concert, besides the dance?”   
       I think I get it now and answer, “Where The Streets Have No Name.”   
       Bono smiles. He’s now gotten all the makeup off and turns to face us again. “I saw you jumping up and down out there! Looked like you had fun. I love that one too.”   
       “My favorite song to play live,” Edge chimes in.  
       Eric figures now is the time for him to speak. “Sorry to interrupt, but do either of you know where Larry and Adam are? I should round them up…”   
“No!” I exclaim. “Stay.” I’m not sure what I’ll do without Eric, one normal person among the celebrities. I might not be able to speak without him in the room.  
“All right, then…” He looks curiously at me.  
“I don’t know where they’ve run off to anyway,” Edge says. “Probably they’re already at the party, waiting for us.”   
“I’m sorry, am I keeping you?” I blurt. It doesn’t seem fair to deny Bono and Edge pleasure by giving me some.   
“No, you’re not keeping us at all!” Bono says. “I’m enjoying myself as much as you are. Is there anything else you’d like to let us know?”   
I think. What’s something I’ve always wanted to tell or ask the band? Finally it comes to me. “I love Achtung Baby. It’s my second favorite. And I like the tour.”   
“Thank you,” Bono says.  
I rack my brain wildly for something that will make an impression. “I love Mr. MacPhisto! Please keep doing that.”   
“Oh right!” Bono exclaims, surprising me. “You got the call last night, didn’t you? At KLM Airlines.”   
KLM Airlines? That is the place I work. And calling… I realize what he’s talking about and say, “Yes, that was me.”   
“Well, you do seem to have a talent,” Bono muses. For a second he pauses, and then tacks to the end, “Oh, did you know that was my birthday?”  
Suddenly I feel ashamed. How could I have forgotten? Every U2 fan must have known Bono was born on the tenth of May. “Oh! Happy birthday!”   
He smiles. “Thank you. I assume the crew sent you the tickets, as well?”   
“Yes,” I say, and Eric adds, “I did that myself.”  
“Thanks, Eric. You must feel like the luckiest girl in the world.” Bono suddenly turns and plucks a jacket off the floor. It’s the same gold jacket that he wore tonight at the show. Turning back to us, he holds the jacket out to me. “Here, try this on. I noticed you’ve taken a liking to it…”   
I blush, remembering my attempts of getting my hands underneath it. I pull my arms through the sleeves and brush it off, standing and striking a pose. Bono claps for me, and Edge and Eric copy him.  
“Do I look good?” I ask.  
“Absolutely. You look better in it than I do!” Bono beams and holds his hands out to me. I return the jacket.  
Edge glances around. “Does anyone have the time?”   
Eric checks his watch. “Here you go…”   
The Edge takes one look at it. “They must be at the party by now. Come on Bono, let’s go catch up.”   
“Wait!” I say as he gets up. “I want to say something.”   
“What is it?” Bono asks.  
I’m suddenly shy. “Can I get a picture?”   
His face softens. “Of course. Camera, camera, does anyone have a camera here?”   
“I’ll get one,” Eric offers, making for the door.  
“No, don’t bother,” Edge says. “I know where I can find one. Just wait here.” He exits the room.  
Bono settles back into his chair. I try to think of something else to say- and finally find it. “I came with my friend, Lina. She wants to ask something.”  
“Yes, what is it?” Bono focuses on me.  
I repeat Lina’s request, one that she made a long time ago. “Can you play Bad more, for her? She loves it.” What I mean is _keep it in the setlist,_ but words fail me again.  
His eyes flutter. “We’ll try.”   
Just then The Edge returns with a Polaroid camera. He smiles at me. “We’ll get your picture now. Who do you want in it?”  
“You first…” I think. “Then Bono, and then both of you.”   
“Okay, I’ll take you and Edge,” Bono says, standing up. Edge hands the camera over to him and we get together. Edge wraps his arm around my shoulders.  
“Smile,” Bono murmurs, and the camera flashes. The photo is spit out all at once. I take it and examine it. “For Lina.” She’ll appreciate that I got a photo of her favorite band member.  
“Now it’s my turn…” Bono gives the camera back to Edge. We cluster together and once again, Bono puts his arm over my shoulders. I shiver as I feel that. He’s not that much taller than me.  
Edge snaps the shutter. I flinch at the light. Bono draws his hand over his eyes as I relax and Edge hands the photo to me. The two of us examine it. I dislike how we look together. Bono looks beautiful, perfectly relaxed. I look tense, my smile barely flickering over my mouth.  
“Okay, now can someone else take the picture?” Edge holds the camera in the air. “Eric?”   
“Sure thing!” Eric’s face lights up and he reaches out for the camera. We group up, The Edge and Bono on either side of me. I wonder if they’re both going to put their arms around my shoulders.  
Moments before Eric pushes his finger down… “Wait.” Bono moves away from us and leans over the dressing table. He fishes around for something, and closes his hand over it. “Here we are…” Bono murmurs, raising his hands to his face. When he turns back to us, those beautiful blue eyes are completely covered up by black shades.  
“The Fly?” I ask him as he returns to my side. He cracks a very Fly-like smile. “Do you _like_ it? ” I giggle, and noticing my smile, Edge calls out, “Ready!”   
       Eric takes the picture. We all relax. Eric gives it to me again, and I skim my eyes over it and burst out laughing.  
       “Stair-step!” I gasp in Dutch. From right to left, we all look like a descending flight of stairs. Edge is the tallest, followed by me, then Bono. It’s perfect and humorous.  
“I don’t see what’s so funny about that,” Bono huffs. “It’s not easy being the little guy.”   
       “And now, Bono, we _really_ have to get going,” Edge says in a reprimanding tone. He looks at me and adds, “It was nice meeting you, Marieke.” I smile and say the same. He holds his hand out to me, and I shake it. My body goes limp at his touch, and I realize we hadn’t really connected by just talking.  
       Bono butts in and offers me his own hand. I shake this one too. He’s got such a gentle touch. I want to thread my fingers through his.  
       “Hey, nice handshake,” Bono says. “You’ve got a firm grip.” I smile while inwardly hoping I hadn’t squeezed too hard.  
         I reach for Eric, mumble out “Bye- nice meeting you,” and then we’re out. Eric leads me back down the hall. For a moment it hasn’t truly hit me yet. But as soon as we’re back in the stadium and making our way for the exit, I say, “I met U2!” and collapse into laughter.  
       Eric gives me a pointed stare. He probably thinks I’m insane. Still laughing hysterically, I say, “Thank you for that- it was good,” and hug him around the neck.   
       “Okay, bye,” Eric says, obviously very much confused.  
       I smile, wave, and exit the stadium wondering if a few photos of half the band will help Lina forgive me for leaving her.

forgive me for leaving her.


	6. Polar Opposites

       As soon as I’ve left the stadium, I am greeted by the sight of security guards swarming all over the place. Momentarily, I panic. Has something happened to Lina?! Was she found with something she shouldn’t be found with?  
       Then I catch sight of her. She’s talking to a guard angrily, but as soon as her eyes focus on me she breaks away from him, yelling, “She’s here!”   
       I stop as Lina collides into me. “Marieke!” she gasps, her voice scorched with anger and worry. “Where the hell were you?!”   
       “Were they looking for me?” I stutter, unable to comprehend what I’m seeing.  
       “Damn right they were!” Lina puts her hands on her hips. “I was nearly sick worrying about you! I asked the guards to search this place all over. Jeez, Marieke, couldn’t you find your way out?”   
I try to say what has happened, but Lina keeps pushing it.  
“So there I was, going half mad looking for you, and now you just appear out here looking perfectly fine; you haven’t been hurt or kidnapped or anything… Do you have any idea what you’ve put me through?”   
Yes, Lina, I have, because I nearly panicked the same when we got separated.   
She doesn’t shut up though, and keeps railing about our separation- “Why didn’t you think to look for me? WHERE WERE YOU?!” It’s beginning to really and seriously annoy me.   
Silently, I hand her the photos I got backstage. Then I quickly turn around and begin walking out into the parking lot. I don’t want to look back. Let Lina finish her very unnecessary rant alone.  
From behind me I hear Lina’s gasp of shock. “But- what- but- HOW?!” I don’t turn around. I just continue my walk to the car. Of course, it would help if I could find it in this darkness…  
Feet pound against the ground to catch up with me, and then Lina is at my side, matching my fast pace step for step. “Marieke, why didn’t you tell me you had backstage passes?” Her voice is creeping in with jealousy.  
I stop abruptly, and Lina stops too. I face her, meet her eyes. “I didn’t have any backstage passes, all right?! We got separated, and then I happened to meet that guy I talked with on the phone, the one who gave me tickets. We recognized each other’s voices and he offered to take me backstage, we went together, and I met Bono and The Edge. It was nothing. I would have taken you along if I’d been warned. Now please, tone it down and just cut all this crap out!”   
I feel hysterical, and it’s not a good thing. Lina offers me her arm, but I push it away. We fast-walk to the car together, Lina appearing to be in a thoughtful daze. At least she’s quiet now. I slide into the seat and she jams her key into the ignition.  
       “I’m sorry for scaring you,” I mumble. “I’m sorry I went backstage without thinking of you. I should have known you’d be a nervous wreck, and jealous … dammit, Lina, I am so sorry!”  
       Lina’s eyes are tight, and she’s grimacing the tiniest bit. But her hands are relaxed as we drive out of the parking lot. I wonder if the pictures made up for my disappearance or if they just angered her with jealousy. It’s probably the latter- or maybe a mix of both.  
       Only when we are on the highway does Lina ask, with creeping wonder in her voice, “So what was meeting U2 like?”  
       I cover my eyes with my hands and drag them down my face. “Um, it was good. Better than good, I mean…”   
       “You met The Edge, right? What did he say to you? Did you mention me?”  
        Leave it to Lina to think of The Edge first. I can’t see how she likes him more than Bono… but maybe some girls have different tastes. I smile a little as I say, “As I recall, he was more interested in talking to Bono than in talking to me.”   
       “Oh.” She turns down a road. “And what was Bono like in person?”   
       I’m silent as I think about it. The vivid touch of his arm around my shoulders comes back all at once. I remember being in those arms, close enough to taste his sweat, feeling safe and protected…  
       “He’s funny,” I mumble blandly. “He’s nice. He’s… he’s perfect.”  
       Can Lina see my red face in the lights from outside? Would she know why it’s on fire? I certainly don’t.  
       She doesn’t take her eyes off the road for a second. “Night of your life, huh?” she asks me absently.  
       I nod. There’s nothing more to say, really. I’m so confused!  
       We drive home and let ourselves into the flat. Upstairs, safe in our room, I say, “How was three nights of Zoo TV?”  
       “It was… great,” she replies, and yawns. I watch her flip onto the sofa.  
       “You can go to sleep if you want,” she moans into the pillow.  
       I turn out the lights and get into bed. My mind, however, is still churning away. I’m so tired I could sleep in my clothes- which, it appears, I am actually doing- and yet my brain is not shutting down.   
       My first U2 show has turned into much more than that. I danced with Bono onstage and met half the band offstage. Maybe, like the phone call had been, it’s too much for me to deal with. I lie back, thinking of how lucky Lina is for seeing the show thrice.  
       This is bound to be the last time on this tour that U2 plays Rotterdam. I don’t want it to end, though. Zoo TV three nights- that’s nothing. My body is aching to be back in the crowd. I want to see every single more show. There can’t possibly be enough!  
       In my frazzled brain as it shuts down, beginning to dream, a voice plays over the background of my memory- _Don’t worry. This stage will be back… in Lisbon._  
                                           ***  
       “Portugal,” I blurt, sitting up.  
       Lina is already awake. She’s making her usual cup of coffee for the morning, though she hates the stuff. I guess everyone needs a wake-up call. I pull my legs up and hook my arms around them, recalling that one phrase. _This stage will be back… in Lisbon._ Was that the next show?  
       “Marieke, get up. Just because you were up late last night doesn’t mean you get to sleep in today.” Lina takes a bite of eggs, so I can’t retaliate with my own words.  
       Not that my mind is on her, anyway. “Portugal,” I mutter again, and get up. The hairbrush is on Lina’s couch, and I pull it through my hair as I search for some clothes in the dresser.  
“I made you some eggs,” Lina tells me as I go to the refrigerator.   
I eat her lovingly made breakfast. It’s not half bad, really. But my mind is so far gone that I say nothing. There’s only one word in my mind, and I can’t get it to escape.  
“Lina? How would you feel if I took a holiday this week?”   
Lina looks up at me, into my blue eyes, down at my shaky hands. Quickly I fold them and squeeze them together, meeting Lina’s gaze evenly.  
“When and why?”   
I get it out as fast as possible. “Portugal. I want to go there to see the next U2 show.”   
Lina keeps staring at me, her eyes veiled from my reading of them. I’m not sure, but I think her expression softens.   
“I asked when, not where.”  
“Well…” I think. “Eric didn’t actually say when, but he told me the next show’s in Lisbon. Quite a slip of the tongue, as well…”   
I was right. Lina’s gaze is no longer harsh, but I have a feeling she partly disapproves. I try to explain to her before she says a word. “You thought three nights was enough. Well, I only saw them for one night. I want to see more. You’ve gotten the chance to go to more shows than me. I really want to go to more.”   
Finally she speaks. “You’re a U2 junkie, huh?”   
It sounds so absurd, and yet so true, that I begin to laugh.  
“Marieke, I’m serious! You want to go all the way to Lisbon? How is this going to work out? I mean, I have nothing against going to see U2 again, but it’s unheard of to go that far.”   
I stare. “I thought you were just as big a fan as me, Lina. I bet that diehards would go to the other side of the world to see a show if it was their last resort.”  
“I’m not… oh jeez, I guess you’re just not understanding me. How can you go away when you have a job to attend to? You don’t want to end up in that hole you were in last year…”  
“Sshh!” She must be the one who doesn’t get it. I’ve never known my friend to be so picky about what I can’t and can’t do. “It’s only a holiday, and I have plenty of hours.”  
“Yes, but…” Lina takes this moment to finish off her coffee. With a grimace, she wipes her mouth and says, “But you don’t even know when it is!”  
“Well…” It’s just like last morning, when she tried not to get me to go to the show. Suddenly my anger flares again. I don’t know what her problem is. We should understand each other on this.  
“I’m going to find out,” I say, and the confrontation ends. I slide up from my seat and cross the room to dump my empty plate in the sink. Lina in turn gets up and follows my actions. I shrug my shoulders and breeze across the room, searching for my jacket. Lina sits on the couch and turns on the television.  
“The drug of the nation,” I mutter as I thread my arms through the coat. Why is this so hard to do? The cuff must be rolled inward, due to the odd way I usually remove my coat. As I struggle, the newscaster speaks.  
“Last night was the rock band U2’s final show here in Rotterdam on their Zoo TV tour.” Lina motions me over to the screen with wild arm movements. We watch it with wide eyes.  
The newscaster’s voice fades into the background of my mind, and the true background music takes over. I see clips of all three nights here. The first two times don’t seem too different from the show I experienced last night. Then suddenly one clip comes on from last night, something I am terribly familiar with.  
The heartbreaking solo of Love Is Blindness shatters through the room and MacPhisto holds me like I’m his last hope, the only light in the world. My shiny brown hair is unmistakable, my face turned into his shoulder, lips achingly close to his neck. Here, I am overwhelmed by dissatisfaction. It’s just like in the photo from last night- he looks gorgeous and I’m a nobody. The clip ends before I can think too hard.  
“U2’s next show will be on Saturday, in Lisbon, Portugal. Tickets are on sale for…”  
I say nothing as Lina silently makes the note in her brain for the cost of tickets. I know she’s going to keep me in line.  
“I guess I’ll head out on Friday, then,” I say.  
Lina looks up at me. “Have fun.”   
I nod and finish slipping into the coat.  
“Don’t be late for work.”   
I zip it up all the way.  
“Herman is coming over for dinner tonight.”  
I freeze.  
“What does _he_ want?”   
Lina rolls her eyes. “It’s strictly work-related this time. And speaking of work, get your butt out the door right now!”  
I sigh, turn, and hurry out.  
It’s not that I feel _jealous_ or anything. That’s what Lina thinks is the problem. But my problem is that I just don’t like Herman. Lina picked a bad choice for a man. That’s why my number one rule in dating would be _don’t go out with the person you work for._  
***  
Speaking of people you work for…  
Once I leave the airport, a happy grin comes to my face. My boss was very understanding about the holiday, and now I have two days off- Friday and Saturday. It’s just better that he not know exactly _why_ I want to go…  
       So I’m coming home to my best friend and crazy U2 fan, Lina, who is already hanging with her somewhat boring boyfriend Herman, who I know will not understand our obsession. I wonder if Lina’s told him about it. I certainly haven’t.  
       Herman and Lina are sitting together on the couch when I walk in. I know she said that this was only a work meeting, but that way they’re sitting looks very intimate… and is it my imagination, or is Herman’s hand lying awfully close to Lina’s?  
       “Hello, Marieke,” Lina greets me, her eyes absently on the television. I want to laugh because it’s not turned on. But instead, that factor makes me feel strangely sick- like what were they doing before I got here, if there wasn’t any entertainment?  
         “Hello,” Herman repeats, and I muster up the decency to give him a wave and a “Hi.” Lina says, “It’s your turn to make dinner.”   
       As I fix dinner, I try not to look at Herman and Lina, but I can’t help wondering what they’re doing over there. What are they talking about? Is it work-related? Or are they exchanging love sentiments?  
       Then I wonder- why should I care?  
       I bristle suddenly as Herman addresses me. “Marieke, how are you this evening?”   
       “Fine,” I say, my words chipping ice off into the air. I don’t have to pretend to like him, do I? Think of last night, just think of last night…  
       But guilt overcomes me. I do have to pretend, because Lina wants me to like him.  
       As we sit down to dinner, I can’t help but notice Herman’s squeeze on Lina’s shoulders just before she takes her seat. Stonily, I hand out the food, masking my angry movements in fluid, cheery smiling. Maybe Lina’s right, and I am just jealous.  
       “How has life been treating you, Marieke?” This is only the third time Herman’s spoken to me the entire night. He has eyes only for Lina even as he speaks. Lina, however, is looking pointedly at me. She wants me to summon up something nice to say.  
       “It’s been okay,” I say, and take a bite of food so I won’t have to go further. Lina’s eyes tighten with calm disapproval. I swallow quickly and add, “Last night I saw the U2 concert…”   
       Herman interrupts me. “Did you go with Lina? That’s all she was talking about, on Monday. _It’s the second show in Rotterdam, and I’m going again!_ Ha-ha.” He bites into his own food.  
       Lina’s eyes have turned onto him now, and her expression of pure love is making me want to barf. I stare at him with my own eyes icing over, and say “It’s more than a crazy obsession. I am going out to Portugal this Saturday to see them again.”   
       Now Herman stares. Suddenly I wish I hadn’t worded things quite that way. Denying it’s an obsession and then giving _that_ fact about Portugal is contradictory. I wait for Herman to make fun of my being a U2 fan.  
       He swallows his bite and asks Lina, “Are you going with her?”   
       She shakes her head, eyes betraying shame. I hate that expression. She looks ashamed of being my friend. My resentment builds. She should let him know that she herself is just as big a fan as I am!  
       Herman addresses me now. “You know that’s not wise, Marieke? It’s hardly ideal. A day trip to Portugal? Do you realize how long that would be? And you’re doing it all just to see a band play a show you’ve seen before?”   
       Think of last night, think of MacPhisto’s arms around yourself, keep your calm, Marieke…  
Of course I get no support from Lina. She was lukewarm on the idea in the first place.  
       So I face Herman surely and tell him, “I love U2, and Lina has seen them live four times. Last night was my first show, and it was an unreal experience. I wish that you’d respect my decision. I know what I want to do this weekend.”   
       Lina giggles and says, “Marieke danced with the Devil last night.” She ducks her head, avoiding my glare.  
      Herman stares at me, and for a moment I wonder if he saw the TV this morning. But all he says is, “That’s all right,” and continues to eat. I pull up my memory of meeting the band last night and use this to get me through the rest of dinner.  
       Afterwards, I clean up as Lina and Herman prepare to part. With my back turned, I notice there’s an awful lot of silence, and I fill in the picture myself. Lina finally murmurs, “Now, that’s enough, time for you to go!” in a grating voice. Herman’s voice answers back, “Just one more time,” and then there’s more silence. I scrub the plates quickly, and hear them murmur their goodnights. Then Herman closes the door behind him.  
       Lina comes over to me and asks, “May I help you with that?” We wash the dishes together in companionable silence, comparable to the blanks of conversation that Herman and Lina filled in with kissing. Then I ask her, “How in the world was that business?”   
       Lina’s face is turned downward, her head bent over the plate, but I swear I can see her blush as she says, “Well, we did discuss it a bit when he first came over.”   
       My plates are done. Lina turns the water off, and removes her rubber gloves as she breezily asks, “Still jealous?”   
       I groan and go over to sit on the couch. Lina plugs the CD player in and puts on Achtung Baby.

 Baby.


	7. Fly The Friendly Skies

Thank you!” I exclaim in my best Portuguese, pulling my coat around me. My breath tumbles out into the air, shaping the words, and I feel like I’m the luckiest girl on Earth.  
“You’re welcome,” the woman says back with a smile. And I walk away holding one ticket for the U2 show tonight and a backstage pass.  
Of course, the first thing to do is slip the objects into my bag and securely zip it up. There’s no way I’m going to let anyone steal my prized tickets. I stride down the sidewalk, grinning up at the sun. Lisbon sure is a beautiful town.  
Won’t Lina be jealous of me tonight? I flash back to the moment I left her, to our parting:  
“There’s your plane,” Lina says to me, pointing down the hall. As a few people hurry to get onboard, I smile and give Lina a hug.  
“Bye, Lina.”  
“Goodbye, Marieke.” She is obviously wondering however will I be kept in check without her around. “Have fun on your trip!”   
I lug my heavy bag down the tunnel, stop, and give her a wave. She flashes a very tiny smile. Our parting probably feels worse than she’d like to admit.  
“Tell me all about it when you get back!” she calls, wavering, trying to let me just leave in peace.   
“I will,” I say, and never look back. How funny it is that I’m using KLM Airlines, the first place I spoke with Bono.  
I shake my head, shaking the memory out like water in my ears, and tip my head back to relax for a moment as I return to the hotel.  
***  
“It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right… hey baby, hey baby, it’s all right in Lisbon tonight!”   
The screams are deafening. If I thought the Dutch people were a noisy audience, then surely the Portuguese blow us out of the water. I think it would probably make more sense to me if I were Portuguese myself. Of course I’m not… but listening to them going crazy, I almost wish I were.  
The show is just as fabulous as before, although my seat isn’t as great as the GA ticket was. General admission was sold out this time, so I had to buy normal, seat tickets… and look where it got me? Too far from the band to properly enjoy my time.  
Oh well. I can still see all the words on the screens, so I’m not missing much there.  
I dance with myself throughout the whole show. I don’t care if the others join in. My singing makes up for all the ones who don’t open their mouths, or the ones who do open them but only to tell me to shut up. A tiny part of me can’t blame them- the noise isn’t all that great from here.  
The band plays New Year’s Day. It’s just as great as the last show, and I’m delighted to hear my favorite song. Nothing, I realize, is quite the same when it’s live.  
And finally, into the set, I hear the definite riff coming. This time all I can do is sit, as Lina had, and think long and hard about my words backstage. Did the band really heed my suggestion and play Bad because I asked them to?  
And as the band wraps up Pride, I find myself shaking, anxious for the encore and a new glimpse of Mr. MacPhisto. My anxiety switches into despair as I long for someone I can share this night with. I’m all alone at a U2 concert, and my thoughts are only Lina should be here.  
Then Edge, Adam, and Larry return to the stage, and as soon as The Edge launches into the Desire riff I forget all my troubles.  
He makes as grand an entrance as at the last show. Those waving arms, that British accent as he calls “Honey, I’m home!”… it’s just too much for me.   
“Lover, I’m off the streets. Gonna go where the bright lights and big city meet. With a red guitar…” He pauses. “On fire…”  
And the most beautiful notes in the world stream from his mouth. “Desire,” he breaths, his clear pleasure in singing bending my body, closing my throat, making me want to scream my love out into the air. Not that he’ll hear me from these seats, however…  
“Desire!” I scream. “I love you!” Now the fans around me really want me to shut up. I pity them, the ones who probably have no idea who this MacPhisto person is. But I know him. I’ve been in his arms.  
“Desire!” he sings, and my heart continues to wrench. However, it’s in a good way. Who knew one man could have so much power over me?  
The band finishes the song with a flourish, and MacPhisto grips the microphone and sings a capella.  
“Moon River, wider than a mile! I’m crossing you in style, some day. Oh you dream maker! You heart breaker! Wherever I’m going, you’re going my way!”   
He peers out into the crowd before anyone can react and remarks, “That’s a good little tune, now isn’t it? Do you know who I am?”   
We all cheer. Most of us roar back to him- “YES!” I smile in my seat, thinking that I’m probably the only person in the stadium who truly knows who this man is.  
“…Because I know who you are,” MacPhisto continues, appearing not to have heard us. I giggle as he adds, “And you’re very loud! And you speak awfully good English. I prefer to speak Irish myself…” I wonder why this is, for it’s clear MacPhisto is not Irish.   
“But I do know you. I know you probably better than you know yourself.” He smiles. “Anyway… off with the horns, on with the show.”   
He sweeps the horns off his head, and I watch as his hand throws them to the side, away on the stage. I wonder what he’ll do with them after the show.  
We all cheer for a long while. I join in happily. When the applause dies down, MacPhisto clears his throat. “Round about this time every night, I like to make a telephone call. Sometimes even to the President of the United States! But not tonight. Tonight I’m going to call a taxi to take me home.” He makes for the telephone.  
A few people boo, me included. How could the star of the show just leave us like this?  
MacPhisto dials a number and we wait. After a while, a woman’s voice echoes through the stadium. “Teletaxis- alô, boa noite.”   
“Hello, I’d like to order a taxi,” MacPhisto blurts. “Hello, could I order a taxi, please? Hello, d-do you speak any English?” I can’t tell from here, but the sound of his voice suggests that that intent expression is on his face once more. “My name is MacPhisto, and I’d like to order a taxi to take me home.”  
I idly wonder where MacPhisto lives as we wait for a response. If there is one, I can’t make it out. Desperate now, MacPhisto tries again.  
“What’s your name?” He pauses. “Hello, who am I speaking to? ...Oh, I know who I’m speaking to,” he hastily adds, catching himself.  
We hear more noises coming from the phone, but nothing that sounds like a response.  
“Hello?” MacPhisto finally ends, his voice disappointed.  
Some people laugh, but I don’t. My heart beats for this poor man. I know one thing- I wouldn’t have hung up on him. Some people just aren’t me.  
MacPhisto shakes his head and declares sadly, “I’m the last pop star… and they’ve hung up on me. Oh well.” With that, Ultraviolet begins.  
This is the moment I really begin to curse my seat. The sound is fine, if a little bit distorted, but my view is crap. I can’t watch MacPhisto’s face as he sings, analyzing his features, and I can’t hold those blue eyes with mine, drowning in his gaze.  
But the performance appears to be the same as the other concert. MacPhisto’s movements are similar to that time, except that his singing is different. I melt at the sound of the beautiful song. Then it reaches its climax, and MacPhisto changes the words.  
“I was all fucked up, you were an opera in my bed! Now your love is a lightbulb, it just goes over my head.” I envision a sad face to match the voice.  
“Baby, baby, baby, light my way.” The Edge joins in on the vocals. “Baby, baby, baby, light my way…”   
“Oooooh, oooh,” MacPhisto sings in clear falsetto, and Edge backs him up. “Ooooh…”  
“Ultraviolet light… ultraviolet light…”   
MacPhisto raises his arms. “Baby, baby, baby! Baby, baby, baby… baby, baby, baby, light my way! Oh…”   
Without knowing why, a scream forces itself from my throat. The fans around me glare, not for the first time tonight.  
“Baby, baby, baby, light…” His voice is almost operatic. “My… way!”   
MacPhisto suddenly slumps over, as if he’s lost all energy with the song. And With or Without You begins.  
The song’s not performed any differently from last show. However, this time I am too annoyed with my seating to pay much attention to it. Before I know it, the song’s over and applause has started. Regret washes over me, but not for long as Love Is Blindness starts.  
Now I am glad I’m not close to the stage. It would break my heart to watch MacPhisto’s expression now. I remember my first show, and tears well up in my eyes, but only briefly. The music still sounds good, but now I realize how large a role being able to see MacPhisto up close played in the extreme rush of emotion I felt back then.  
And then it comes and shocks me. Edge dashes straight into the solo, and MacPhisto turns onto the B stage. He pulls a girl from the audience, and I see myself in her for a second before jealousy bites my soul.  
She is so close- and I am so far away. I can do nothing but watch the couple swaying and wish I had something to throw at the girl. I want to be in his arms again. I want it… I want him…  
Then two things happen at once. Edge’s solo ends and fear comes crashing down, taking my jealousy away. I shiver violently, looking up at the stars. The shaking is unrelated to the night air and to the cold tears that have finally come. I’m terrified and I don’t know why. No, that’s not true- I’m terrified of myself. What were those crazy thoughts I had a moment ago? Jealousy? Want? What the heck?  
The others around me are probably glad I’ve gone quiet. I for one am NOT, because I’ve just missed the end of the song. There is, however, one last number…  
“Wise men say only fools rush in…”   
Now my section has finally caught the singing bug. “But I can’t help falling in love with you!”   
MacPhisto is retreating from the stage. I want to call out to him- No! Come back! But there’s nothing I can do. My only ability is to sing until the song ends, and the band has disappeared.  
Curse that thunderous applause! I want to just sit here and think for a moment. This show was so unlike my first. Could the seats have had something to do with it?  
I wrap my arms around myself and wait until my section has cleared out. I wait to be alone under the dark sky, and then finally I get up and head off to redeem my backstage pass before it’s too late.


	8. Stomping The Roses

Confusion hits as soon as I’m near **the** stage. Last time Eric found me by a lucky chance. This time I have no idea how to use my pass. I wander around until someone catches sight of me.  
 **The** woman is tall, heavily built, and dark-toned. Her hair blends in **with** **the** sky, curling protectively around her throat as she questions me in Portuguese.  
       My own Portuguese is not the best. I only had time to hastily study a phrase book before getting to the city. I shake my head and wish I had at least learned how to say “I do not speak Portuguese.” Although technically, that would mean I do know…  
       She pauses, and then repeats her query in halting English. “Do you know where to go with these?” Her hand whips out a backstage pass, identical to mine!  
       I switch to my own version of English. “No! I have it too.” I open my bag and show her the object.  
       She looks relieved, and we share a little laugh, finding it humorous that we both have passes and don’t know what to do with them. Then she asks my name.  
      “Marieke.”   
     “I am Valeria,” she says. “Where are you from?”  
       “Holland,” I respond, and she laughs. “That’s far!”   
       I can tell her English is a bit better than mine. Thinking that this will be an advantage for when we get to meet the band, I say, “Stay with me. Let us get help” and head off, trusting her to follow.  
       Soon Valeria and I have discovered where to go. The stadium is cleared out and we are all alone, save for the third member of the backstage party- another man from Portugal, although not from Lisbon. We’ve all grouped together and the man has just told me his name is Max when a man approaches us, wearing **t** he tell-tale uniform of the Zoo TV crew. I feel a sudden pinprick of disappointment that it’s not Eric before the feeling disappears as quickly as it has come.  
       He smiles and says something in broken Portuguese, and I have simultaneous waves of sympathy for him screwing up the language and anger that I can’t understand his words. Valeria sighs with a head shake- sheesh, **the** guy must have _really_ mangled it, aren’t **the** crew educated?- and translates it into English for me- “He will take us to **the** band.”  
       Pleased, I follow him happily, walking in stride **with** Valeria as he leads us backstage. Max stares **with** wide eyes, and a grin breaks over Valeria’s face as they get to see behind **the** scenes. I am not surprised, though. I’ve seen it before, and this looks a lot **the** same.  
       The man is doing **the** same thing as Eric- he’s looking for **the** members of **the** band. I want to suggest going into **the** dressing rooms when- wonder of wonders- he leads us right into one of them. I’m a bit surprised we’re permitted entrance inside- surely I was an exception last show?   Now Valeria squeals and I suddenly realize there are not two, but all four members of **the** band in here.  
       While Max and Valeria gape, I scan **the** room for one person. My eyes dance over Edge, linger a small moment on Adam and Larry, and finally after a while stop their search. It’s taken me a bit to find him because I was looking for someone else, but there’s no mistaking it now. MacPhisto has changed back into Bono, and from **the** look in his eyes I can tell he’s recognized me.  
“Hey, do I know you?” he asks, shutting everyone else in **the** room up for a moment. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but- are you Marieke from **the** last show?”   
I smile and say, “Yes.” He remembered my name!   
“Well!” he laughs. “You’ve come a long way! What are you doing in Lisbon?” He stands up, and I can’t help but notice that he’s failed to welcome **the** other two visitors. Bono has eyes only for me. This makes me selfishly happy, but I guess it couldn’t hurt to give **the** other two their chances…  
“I saw **the** show,” I explain, and then point out to him, “They are Valeria and Max.” **The** two Portuguese fans stare at me, probably wondering how I’m acquainted **with** Bono.  
He takes **the** hint and goes to greet them, but in **the** space of a second before he winks at me. I shrug and smile blandly. His words from our last meeting echo in my ear- _You must have a talent for being in **the** right place, at **the** right time…_  
Talk about that! I go over to reintroduce myself to Edge and to become acquainted **with** Larry and Adam.  
There is surprise in Edge’s eyes as he recognizes me. I hold out my hand. “Marieke Lang.” He shakes it, giving his own name- “The Edge.” I suppress a loving eye roll at that. “It is good to see you here!”   
“Nice to see you, too,” he says, smiling. “What a lucky girl!” I could agree. I’ve only been to two shows, and met **the** band at both of them!  
One difference is clear. As I watch Bono chatting **with** **the** Portuguese fans, I realize that Eric’s not here now. **The** man who escorted us to **the** room is standing in **the** background, not a part of this. In fact, I can swear his gaze is locked on my hips. I am going to tell him to cut it out when **the** sound of my name brings me back to **the** real world.  
“Marieke, you have to meet **the** others.” Bono is pointing me out to Adam and Larry, who stare at me **with** interested eyes. Suddenly I get stage fright. I have spoken to Bono and Edge, but I’ve never met Larry or Adam before. I don’t think I’ve even heard them speak before, except in **the** _Rattle And Hum_ movie and in a few interviews I managed to catch on **the** radio or TV.  
I clear my throat and manage an awkward, “Hi.” If only those other fans weren’t here! I know I’d feel more comfortable alone. Well, maybe alone **with** a friend. Valeria looks angry that I’m getting all **the** attention, and I want to explain about our first meeting. However, I have neither **the** words nor **the** time.   
“Hey.” Adam looks absolutely cool and comfortable. He’s wearing sunglasses and is sprawled in a chair, at peace. I’m not sure what to think of Larry, who repeats my “Hi,” but doesn’t meet my eyes. He’s very handsome- but very reserved.  
Desperate for more conversation, I blurt **the** first question out. “Are you going to a party tonight?”   
They laugh. Bono asks, “Why, do you want to come?”   
I am fairly sure he’s joking, but it can’t hurt to take my chances. “Yes.”  
Valeria speaks up. “I want to go!”   
**The** band is very amused. “Maybe later, some other time,” Edge murmurs, sounding very friendly. Why can’t it be tonight?  
While **the** Portuguese fans get their moments **with** Edge, Adam, and Larry, Bono comes back over to me and takes up my hands in his own. I’m startled by those blue eyes, peering directly into mine. “What did you think of **the** show tonight, Marieke? Happy that we played Bad?”   
My English speaking and understanding abilities are impaired by that gaze, and what I end up saying is “Lina is happy.” **The** words for _more, will be, my friend, when I get home_ are lost on me.  
“Is that your friend?” Bono says. I nod and slide my gaze to **the** corners of my eyes, scanning for anyone watching us. Adam and Edge are over by **the** Portuguese fans and **the** man who brought us in here is idly leaning against **the** door, eyes protective but at least off me. Larry, I notice, is **the** one who’s checking me out. His eyes are on my boobs for one second before he notices I’m watching and turns his gaze away. I swallow a sigh and am just glad Adam didn’t seem to take interest in me.   
My eyes flicker back to Bono, who hasn’t released my hands. “How are you?”  
He laughs at **the** perfectly normal way I ask it, as if I’m talking to a close friend and not **the** biggest rock star in **the** world. “Good, and you?”  
That’s when I notice that Valeria and Max are asking for autographs. I pull back from Bono and gesture to them, signaling that I want what they’re getting.  
It takes him a while to understand, but it finally dawns as Edge walks back over to us. “Would you like an autograph, Marieke?” he asks, shooting a look at Bono as if to tell him **the** Portuguese fans want him over there. In fact, I can see Max and Valeria closely watching us, wearing matching jealous expressions.  
“Oh, okay…” He turns back to them and throws me a glance before going. I wonder if he’s just as interested in me as I am in him.  
I nod to Edge and he turns to get a pen from someone while I search for paper. Why didn’t I think of getting autographs?  
“Max? Valeria? Can I…” **The** word for “paper” or “note” dissolves.  
“Oh, you can get it from Jack,” Edge says, sneaking up behind me **with** **the** pen. He motions to **the** Zoo TV crew member, who takes a moment to get his gaze off my body and onto his own as he searches his pockets for a notepad. He finds one and holds it out to me, and I hand it over to Edge, who signs it. Won’t this be a great present for Lina!  
We wait for **the** other band members to finish getting pictures **with** **the** other fans, and I grow anxious. Soon we’ll be kicked out, and I don’t want to leave. I nudge Edge and whisper those last words to him.  
His voice is apologetic, if a bit removed. “The fans usually only visit for a few minutes, enough time for whatever photos and signatures and questions they want. We used to let them stay longer, but some fans got a bit clingy and wouldn’t leave.” Edge pauses and adds, “Of course, it doesn’t help that Bono doesn’t know how to shut up.”   
I watch him **with** **the** others, chatting up a storm, and figure that without Bono **the** room would probably be silent.  
And then I stare down at Edge’s autograph and suddenly think of Lina, alone in Rotterdam, probably waiting for my return. Even though she chose not to accompany me and see another show, I know she’ll be envious. **With** her on **the** mind, I get an idea.  
“Edge?” He turns his head to me. “Can you do a thing for me?”   
“What is that?” Up close, I notice his eye color. I never knew it was hazel before. **The** shade is a relief after Bono’s disrupting blue gaze.   
“Lina is my friend.” I try to think of a way to phrase this properly. “She… loves you.”   
“Now that’s enough to flatter a man!” Bono calls to us from **the** other side of **the** room, surprising me. Why was he listening us? Edge just shakes his head, but I spot his smile. “Ignore him. Go on…?”  
So far so good. I lean in and ask, “Can you telephone Lina?”  
No response. **The** Edge looks at me and then turns his gaze onto **the** rest of **the** band and **the** other fans. They’re just finishing **with** their photographs.  
Finally he comes back to me and sighs. “Well. **The** phone’s out there…”   
I swallow and say, “Thank you!” No wonder Lina likes Edge so much, if he’s this tolerable **with** fans.  
 **The** two of us move toward **the** door, and Edge calls over his shoulder, “Marieke and I are stepping out for a bit, there’s something she wants to do…” Adam smirks. “Oh, _is_ there now?” Edge rolls his eyes as we disappear out **the** door. “You’ll _try_ not to miss me too much, will you?” he concludes. **The** door closes, but not before I hear Bono saying “And who said we’re ones to miss you?”  
 **The** crew member- Jack, I know now- leads us away to find **the** phone. I wonder if we’re going to use MacPhisto’s phone and laugh inwardly. Edge looks less calm now that we’re out of **the** dressing room. He’s probably worried that I might try something out here, when we’re alone… But of course I wouldn’t do that. Edge is for Lina, MacPhisto is for me.  
Jack shows us to a phone and gives it to me, saying “For your convenience.” I catch **the** way he lingers on my face, as if he’s anxious for something. Some kind of gratification is wanted from him. Well, whatever that is, I’m not giving in. I fix my gaze on **the** phone and stab **the** numbers for our home phone.  
Edge and I eye each other as **the** dial tone buzzes in my ear, a tone I’ve heard so many times before. I say “It might take a time,” and turn my mind onto other matters, questions like _what time is it in **The** Netherlands?_  
He mouths “That’s okay” and waits for me to give him **the** phone. I cross my fingers and think _Please pick up, Lina._  
“Hello?” I jump.  
Smooth timing, Lina!  
 **The** voice is weary sounding, but it’s still a relief to hear my native tongue. Unfortunately, now I’ll have to hand **the** phone over to Edge. I resist **the** urge to say a word as I pass **the** receiver over to **the** guitarist, who lifts it to his ear and says in a clear tone, “Hello, Lina.”   
I wish I could hear **the** other end, but my imagination can fill in **the** blanks. If I know anything, Lina will be wide awake and alert now, demanding to know who it is calling her. This thought sends a flicker of a smile across my mouth, and I watch Edge more carefully now.  
He answers her unheard demand. “Well, a friend told me to call you… this is **The** Edge.”   
**The** response is very easily heard this time, almost drowning out Edge’s teasing query of “Don’t you recognize my voice?”   
And then, without warning, **the** scream ends. I feel my heart stutter and I blurt “What’s wrong?”  
Edge presses **the** phone closer to his ear, and then after a span of a few seconds tentatively holds it out to me. “I think she’s… fainted.”   
I stare at **the** phone and then switch to staring at him, unable to believe that Lina, **the** strongest girl I know, could have fainted. But I guess there are certain people who bring out certain reactions…  
We glance anxiously at one another for a moment before Edge gives an awkward shrug and says “Wow. I feel like MacPhisto right now.”   
“Telephoning fun?”   
Edge licks his lips. “Er… yeah.”   
We continue to stare at each other. Without breaking eye contact, I send **the** phone back to its cradle and slowly, very slowly, raise one eyebrow- a trick Lina has taught me. Edge doesn’t even blink as he, even slower than me, copies **the** same movement.  
Then we burst out laughing.  
“We have to make a… call,” I mutter when I can speak again. It’s not fair to have Lina’s favorite celebrity call her and then just hang up when she faints. Edge should leave her a message.  
I take up **the** phone once more and dial our number. **The** phone on **the** other end rings… and rings… and when **the** answering machine comes on, I guess that Lina is still out cold. It’s a surprising thought.  
Edge takes the receiver and says, “Hey. Sorry we scared you with the first call. Your friend Marieke is here backstage with U2, and she put me up to doing this. It’s nice to know I’m loved just as much as Bono! Take care, and have a good night!” He gives it back to me.  
       Taking the phone, I lapse into Dutch. “You better like this surprise… or I don’t know how to make you happy anymore. Love you, girl! Talk to you tonight!”   
       Now we’re standing in the hall alone, just smiling. I hang up the phone.  
       “All right, let’s go back, it is late.” Jack makes a move towards us, as if to lead us back. But I don’t need leading. We walk off, and inwardly I wonder if hanging up on Lina was the right thing to do. She didn’t even get to say a real word to her man…  
         Then I see a face in the hall that drives my thoughts away.  
I break away from Edge and hurry towards that face, calling “Hey Eric!”

     It’s just my luck that, while returning to the dressing rooms, I have spotted Eric backstage. He looks surprised to see me as well, and I guess who wouldn’t? Why would I be out here in Portugal, in Lisbon? I should be back at home, far away where he left me last time.  
       Why else would I be here but to see U2?  
       “I’m sorry, do I-“ He has to stop talking as I hug him and he realizes he _does_ know me. “Hey, Marieke! Whatever are you doing here? Why did you come to Lisbon?”  
       “It was the next show,” I tell him. “You said.”  
       “Oh, I… I guess I did.” He looks dazed, and I can’t blame him. Then his eyes focus, and he calls over my shoulder, “Hello Edge!”   
       We look back and there’s Edge standing with Jack, right outside the dressing room door. His eyes settle in on us and he smiles. “Are you acquaintances?”   
“Of a sort,” Eric responds while I try to remember what _acquaintances_ means. “Oh, hi Jack,” he quickly adds, because Jack is looking a little lost by now.  
       “Hey, Eric,” Jack replies.  
         “I guess I’ll just leave **the** two of you alone,” Edge says, still smiling, although not as much as before. Obviously he’s worried about leaving a fan to her own twisted devices. I snort and cover it up by pretending to cough in my hand. Eric’s **with** me. Nothing can possibly go wrong…  
       “I’ll keep a _very_ close eye on her,” Eric suggests, and just laughs when I glare at him. I’ve got to get someone to help me perfect that look. Edge waves casually **with** his left hand, and I wave back and smile as he fingers **the** doorknob. Just then, **the** doorknob turns without Edge moving it, and **the** entire door bangs open as **the** two Portuguese fans, Valeria and Max, leave **the** room.   From somewhere inside I can hear Bono saying, “Time to go! Have a good night, you two!” Then his tone of voice changes as he sees Edge outside **the** door. “Ah, so you’re back, Edge!”   
       “Em… I was just opening **the** door,” Edge murmurs.  
         “Yeah, but now we’re letting you back in. Where’s Marieke?” Bono steps out of **the** room and spies me. “Hey!”   
       I giggle and wave. Eric doesn’t seem as happy, though, and calls back, “She’s **with** me.”   
       “Oh… well, _is_ she now?” Bono strolls closer. “Marieke, where did you and **The** Edge run off to?” he asks, addressing me.  
       I am about to tell him before Adam comes out and ruins it for me. “Hey, Bono, shouldn’t it be about time for **the** party now?”   
       “Damn. Who’s got a watch on them?”   
       “I do,” Eric mutters, holding up his wrist.  
       Bono takes Eric’s wrist in his hands and stares at **the** time. “Great. If we hurry we’ll make it.” His gaze turns to me, and he says “It’s time you better go.”   
       I bristle as he says it, but in truth he doesn’t sound that angry **with** me. His tone is much more regretful, as if he’d like me to stay. Why doesn’t Bono just invite me to **the** party?   
         “Okay,” I murmur, and hold out my hand for one last shake before we go. Bono takes it, but to my surprise he pulls me in by my hand and wraps one arm around me for a hug. I squeeze him back, my nose full of his scent, before he lets go and we break away.   
       “Hey, keep it PG out here,” Adam mutters, pulling out a cigarette.  
       “If that’s not PG I don’t even want to think about what goes on in your room at night,” Bono mutters back to him.  
       Edge takes my attention off them and shakes my hand. “It was fun seeing you again, Marieke. Take care.”   
“No hug?” I ask, my lower lip jutting out in a mock-pout.  
He sighs and turns it into a laugh. “All right.” We embrace, and for **the** moment we’re together he whispers in my ear “Don’t make Lina jealous!”   
I laugh and say “Oh, never!” And then Larry escapes **the** dressing room and **the** rest of **the** band pounces on him.   
“Wait!” I call before they can leave. “Can I…?”  
They’re all looking at me, so I hold out **the** autograph that Edge gave me. _Don’t go yet._  
“Of course we’ll sign that,” Bono says, coming back over. “You can’t ask for much less.”  
He’s right- unless I asked for, let’s see, free tickets to **the** next show in general admission? Nah, that’d never work…  
They’ve all signed **the** paper, and I inspect their handwritings. Bono’s signature is pleasing to **the** eye. Edge’s is near illegible. I look up and manage to throw **the** band one last wave before they’re all gone, and a sense of loss overtakes me.  
I turn and face Eric again. I can see my sadness mirrored in his eyes, though I have no idea why he should share my mood. How could anyone be displeasedif they got to work for U2? Does he have any idea how lucky he is?  
“Good night, wasn’t it?”   
“Yes,” I respond, my mood clearly heard in my voice.  
“Good night you didn’t want to end?”   
“You are right,” I say, and lean into him. “I have to go.”   
Eric takes my arm. “C’mon, I’ll lead you out.”   
**The** scenes around me soon become a blur as Eric leads me down and out, back to **the** stadium. I don’t want to see any more of it, anyway. It’s not fair that he should get Zoo TV every day and I should have it whenever I can afford **the** money.  
 **The** stadium is an empty place now, **with** only cleanup crew going along **the** aisles. Eric takes my hand and asks “Where did you sit this time?” I point to **the** spot, and he looks at me **with** a _“wow, really?”_ expression on his face.  
“Yes,” I say, and smooth my brown hair back. His own hair, I notice, is brown like mine. Or it could be black like Bono… hard to tell in this darkness. I don’t remember what it was like in **the** light.  
Eric touches me and hugs my body, and I give him a half-hearted embrace back. He looks sideways at me for a while when we pull apart, and then gives me a statement I thought I’d never hear.  
“How would you like to stay **with** me, Marieke? I could get you a job **with** **the** Zoo TV crew. You’d never have to leave a show.”  
What?!  
My mouth falls open as I try to think of a response. All my English has just flown out **the** window. Eric saves me by assuming, “I take it you want to?”   
I can’t nod my head. Already practicality is settling in. So even though my heart is screaming _YES, YES, YES,_ my open mouth slower moves and forces **the** words out. “I need to… think of it before.”   
Eric is silent for a moment. Then his words tumble back out- “I understand. I’ll give you a number you can reach me at, in **the** hotel…”   
I wait for it.  
       “…but you can only get me there for as long as we’re in Lisbon. **The** tour’s going to be moving on pretty soon, and you’ll have to decide it by at least tomorrow.”   
       Oh.  
       The bare facts of his speech come at me. I know I want to do this so badly- follow U2 on tour. But I just can’t without consulting Lina.  
       “Give me the number.”   
       “Okay.” He whispers, barely disturbing me or the stars in the sky, **the** only other listeners on our private conversation. I wait while he writes it down on a notepad- maybe all **the** crew members carry one with them.  
       He gives it to me and I slip it securely into my pocket. We face each other for a bit, and then he says   “Well, goodbye, Marieke.” I flap a wave in his direction and turn off without another word.

                                                         ***

       At home in the hotel, I lie down for the first time today. Ah… man, that feels good. I stretch out each muscle and work on completely emptying my mind. It works after a while, and I become calm and relaxed enough to sit up- Portugal and The Netherlands are only separated by one hour. And if it’s twenty-two-thirty or so now, Lina will be in bed. But there’s no wasting time here…

       I wait with a racing heart for Lina to be aroused by the ringing on her end. She’s probably sleeping in my bed instead of the couch tonight, always anxious for a chance to have that privilege, and that would put her closer to the receiver. I cross my fingers and think of nothing, holding my eyes closed. _Lina, please pick up, we need to talk…_

“Hello?”

       A voice even more blurred by sleep, but a voice all the same. And it’s Lina’s voice, more importantly. I try to speak softly, not wanting to scare her all at once. “Lina, it’s me. Marieke.”

       I picture the face on the other end. A face struck through by shadows through the blinds, her blond hair askew and clinging in a love embrace to her face. The face matches the voice that sighs and sounds more focused as she speaks my name. “Marieke.” I can almost feel her movement towards the kitchen area for the light.

       “I had to call you now. I just got back to the hotel.”

       “What time is it there?” she asks. My ears pick up the snap of a light switch, which adds meaning to the groan I hear a second later. I picture Lina with her hand over her eyes. With that, she’ll feel the hair on her face and begin pulling it away, running her fingers through her too-tangled hair to try and brush it smooth.

       “It’s twenty-two-thirty-three now.”

       “What, were you out partying with U2 all night?” she asks, and laughs exhaustedly.

       “Well…” I think about it. “Well… I did…”

       She cuts in swiftly, and from the sharp tone of her voice I can tell she’s completely awake. “Oh, come _on!_ You really are tired.”

       Maybe Lina’s right, or maybe it’s just my short memory getting in the way. “Well…” I continue, trying to think of every detail. “It wasn’t really a party?”

       Now Lina’s shocked. “You met the band again?”

       I try to explain: “Not again. Last time it was just two of them.”

       “Oh, come _on!”_ she says again, but in a dazed, wondering sort of way, not a _you need some sleep_ way.

       Talking about it invigorates me. “Yeah, I got a backstage pass. It was really fun. They’re great guys.”

       “Tell me every single thing!” Lina insists. I envision her leaning against the counter with the phone pressed to her ear, the cord stretching back to the cradle. I know she’ll tangle the cord with her fingers, anxious to hear my story, and then look back at the cradle when the cord won’t stretch out any farther. I see her in my head latching onto that image of the cradle, remembering something, and then-

       “Marieke,” Lina breathes. “Was that you calling me earlier tonight?”

       I smile.

       “Did you like that? Edge was very willing to do my bidding. I was surprised.”

       But Lina doesn’t sound happy anymore. “Oh, _darn it!”_ she moans. “I got a phone call from my favorite celebrity, and I _fainted_ before I could say a word!” I hear a smack, presumably Lina’s palm upon her forehead.

       “Hey, don’t worry,” I try to encourage her. “Just think, that’s exactly what could have happened to me when I got Bono’s phone call.”

      “But… but it wasn’t Bono this time,” she complains, sounding sulky. I want to laugh at her tone, reminiscent of a little kid who wants more dessert.

       “I know it wasn’t,” I say soothingly. She’s easy to rile up and easy to calm down. “Check your answering machine.”

       A pause on the other end. Then the click of the machine, the announcement that there is one new message, and then Edge’s voice projects across the phone line, followed by mine explaining the prank in Dutch.

       When it ends there’s another pause. Then Lina’s voice comes back on, and it’s obvious that she’s smiling, like me. “Thank you! I’m never going to erase that machine now.”

       “You’re welcome,” I laugh back to her.

       Then I sense her growing confused. “Just how long was I out?”

       I wonder about that. If she fainted in the middle of the first call, then didn’t pick up for the second, and when woken up now at twenty-three-thirty and didn’t remember a thing of the call until she’d seen the phone cradle, well… I can’t really say.

       “Marieke, I love you,” she tells me, unable to see my blush at the other end. Then, forcefully- “Tell me everything!”

       So I launch into a detailed description of the show and the meet-up with the band, starting from the moment the band took the stage all the way to their good-byes. Lina interrupts a bit at first, but then shuts up and enjoys my story. I assume she’s switched out leaning on the counter to sitting on it.

       “Then you went out?” she asks at the end of my tale. “You came back to the hotel?”

       “Yeah, Eric led me out,” I say. I think of his offer, which brings me back to the original reason I called our flat. “Hey, would you-“

       “That’s so _awesome!”_ she gushes, interrupting me at last. “Did you buy anything? I have a shirt; if you bought something we could match. Oh, did you get more pictures, or was that just Max and Valeria? There sure were a lot of people you met. Eric sounds nice. What are Adam and Larry like? You didn’t mention them much. Oh, and what about Jack? Did he even say anything that whole time?”

       “Argh!” I say, forgetting for a moment she’s not really there and holding my hand out to stop her tongue from moving. “Too many questions! Calm down, I want to tell you something.”

       Lina waits.

       “Eric… gave me an offer of something, tonight. He wanted to know if I’d be… interested in working with him on the tour. You know, doing backstage stuff probably close to the band… I don’t know what kind of job he has in mind-“

       Anticipating Lina’s response, I scream into the receiver at the exact same time she does, to show her how annoying it is when she raises her voice.

       “Blow my ears out, will you?” she grumbles. I shrug, knowing full well that she can’t see that reaction, and then wait for her to say, “That’s perfect! That is perfect. Who would turn down that chance?”

       “Obviously not you,” I say.

       “Obviously neither of us! But there’s one issue…”

       I sigh, knowing it’s coming.

       “Your work. How can you just leave your job at the airport? Even if you have enough holiday hours, how can you afford to take such a long break? Would they be paying you with the crew? Or are you just going to kind of follow the band without doing anything? This is weird. You can’t quit your job!”

       Once again, my friend is right. And I don’t want her to be right. Could they get a temporary replacement for me, for as long as the tour lasts? But how long will it last? I never expected it to go on into 1993- though really I shouldn’t have been surprised, seeing as this is a world tour. But still, all those days I miss at work could affect something. What if I fall into debt again?

       Lina is right. I can’t take this chance. I open my mouth and tell her so.

       “Good.” Her briskness signals that she’s not totally happy, and it shows in her next, decidedly _not_ brisk words. “I wish you could do it, honestly! That’s, like, one of my dreams. It’s hard to decide between pleasure and practicality… but you know which one has to win. Truly, I’d love to see you take this offer.”

       The receiver feels heavy in my hand. “All right,” I say. “I’ll call Eric…”

       Eric?

       _Eric works for Zoo TV. Eric has a job working for the band. Eric’s job is real- whatever it is- and he gets paid for it. Eric makes enough money._

This silent reasoning takes first place in my mind. If Eric has a real job with the band- why can’t I get one?

       “Lina-!” I lean forward and push away the strings of hair that fall in my eyes. “Wait. I think…”

       In my head, Lina’s eyes widen. Her voice on the other end comes out- “Are you going to do it?”

       “I’m taking on that offer,” I say, and air rushes out of Lina’s lungs audibly.

       “How are-“

       “there are real jobs working on tour,” I say. “The crew members get paid, don’t they? The people who work backstage- they get money. I can have a job too…”

       “Would you quit your job at the airport for this?” Lina asks dubiously.

       “No.” I start to smile again. “It’s just part time.”

       The conversation lasts a long time. My idea is to use all my holiday hours to join U2 on tour and maybe get a job with the crew. Lina, of course, tries to counteract my every move, depressing my spirit with withering comments on money and time and future plans. I’ve known she’ll do this, however, and pretty soon have her on my side, though she won’t admit it. The battle’s easily won- Lina would never force me to do something I didn’t want to, and definitely not something that she wants as badly. She caves soon, and I declare my triumph.

     “All right. You’ve won… this time,” Lina sighs. “Just be happy it’s late and I’m too tired to form a proper argument!”

       “You wouldn’t have stopped me even if you tried- which you wouldn’t have, and you know it!” I say, smiling.

       “That’s nice. Okay, can you please hang up now, Marieke? It’s midnight here.”

       “But that’s just the beginning of a new day.”

       “I still need sleep!” Even though it’s dangerous provoking Lina when she’s sleep-deprived, it’s worked out fine now. There is a teasing tone in her voice, not anger. “And it’s, like, twenty-three o’clock there. Go to bed, babe.”

       “Night-night,” I laugh, and we hang up.

       As soon as that’s over, I fall back onto the pillows, my hair billowing out and the cool fabric washing through the hot skin on my neck. Must I sleep in my clothes again? The suitcase is across the room, but I’m too tired to go and drag it out. More phone calls- to Eric, to my family, to KLM- will have to wait for tomorrow. I’m just so bone-tired… and when I close my eyes, the last thing feel is excitement for what’s next.


	9. Grab Your Things

       Here it comes!  
       I wake with a huge smile on my face. The events from last night are clear in my head, and I replay them like a movie as I get dressed and brush my teeth. A few bits of Lina’s conversation is lost on me, but I remember our conclusion- I will take up Eric’s offer and get a job on Zoo TV. Excitement reigns supreme and makes my hands shake as I try to carefully pull my hair into a ponytail.  
Once I am presentable, it’s hard to decide what to do now. Call Eric? Nope, too early for that. Call my family? Well…  
Soon I’m back on **the** phone, dialing my parent’s home number. They live in Holland, but not near me and Lina. My family was proud when I moved to Rotterdam, but still sad that I wouldn’t get to see them as often. So I’ve managed to keep closely in touch **with** them by calling their home for hour-long chats.  
 **The** time here in Portugal is past seven. In Holland it will be past eight, so my parents will be up. I smile and press in **the** number, then wait for **the** ringing on **the** other end to cease.  
“Hello?” And hearing my father’s voice on **the** other end of **the** line is a surprise. Not **the** fact that it’s my father, but **the** fact that I haven’t heard it in so long…  
“Hey Dad. This is Marieke.” I swallow and add, “Can I talk to you and Mom?”  
He sounds just as surprised as I am. “Marieke! Why of course, I’ll get your mother…” There’s a pause, and then her all-too-familiar voice comes on. “Hi, sweetheart, what’s up?”  
Oh dear. Maybe I don’t call them as often as I should. I rack my brains for **the** last memory of calling them, and come up blank. Guilt comes on, but I choke it back and say, “Hello, Mom.”   
“This is a surprise,” my dad says. “What’s **the** occasion, Marieke?” I start to protest- it really hasn’t been _that_ long- when he chuckles and says “Oh, I’m kidding. It’s just good to hear your voice today.” Mom chimes in **with** , “Especially considering that your sister hasn’t rung us in years!”  
Knowing my sister, this is probably not an overstatement. **The** entire time I lived **with** her last year, she never once called our parents. I say, “It’s good to talk to you, too.” You too… heh, in English it sounds just like U2. That stupid pun never fails to get me. “How’s life over there?”   
“Oh, simply boring,” my mom sighs.   
My dad laughs and mock-whispers to me, “She’s just saying that because she’s not working anymore. **The** only excitement she gets is from **the** garden outside.”   
“I’m too young to be doing old-lady things such as that!” my mom complains.  
I smile. Oh, how I love my parents.  
       “So what’s it like **with** Lina these days?” Dad asks. “You two getting along fine?”   
You two… God, not again.   
       “Yeah, everything’s okay here in Rotterdam,” I say, glancing around my hotel room and thinking that, well, Rotterdam’s not exactly _here._ “Lina and I saw **the** U2 show on Wednesday.”   
       “Oh?” Mom’s voice has come in now, but it’s not a comforting tone. I don’t think she quite understands our obsession, though she’s never said anything against **the** music.   
       “How was it?” Dad wants to know. He somewhat gets **the** importance of this, at least.   
“Extreme!” I blurt. “You can’t believe how amazing **the** show was. And…” **The** need to hesitate suddenly comes over me. “And… well, I met **the** band after **the** show.”   
“Good for you!” Dad exclaims, his shock clear. “Well, that must have been an out-of-body experience.”   
“It practically was,” I insist.  
“Ehhh…” Mom sighs, and I guess she’s bored. “Was it then?”   
I decide to leave out **the** details about MacPhisto’s phone call to KLM and how I met Eric. Instead, I come to **the** part that brings us up to speed.   
“Well, I flew out to Lisbon to see **the** next show,” I murmur, trying to sound as casual as possible.   
“Wait… Lisbon in _Portugal?”_ Guess my casual tone didn’t trick my mom.  
“Yeah, I’m… in Lisbon now,” I say, coughing awkwardly.  
There’s just silence on **the** other end. Then Dad asks, “Was **the** show any good?”   
Here it comes. I answer his question- “Better than before.” And then- “I met **the** band again. And they want me-“ Okay, so it’s not really **the** band that wants me, but to heck **with** details- “They want me to join them on tour. I could get a job **with** **the** crew. I was calling just to let you know I’ll be working for Zoo TV, and I probably won’t call or visit you for a while.”   
     Even more silence. If it weren’t a cliche, I’d say **the** silence is deafening. Finally, finally Dad speaks.  
“Are you sure you want to do this? It’s hard working on tour.”   
“I’ve already made my mind up,” I say.  
Mom swallows. “All right. We’ll miss talking to you, sweetheart.”  
“Yeah. But there’ll be a lot of talking when I get back!”   
“There better be,” my dad says. “Tell us everything about working for rock stars! What an exciting lifestyle lies in wait for you.”   
I smile. “Thanks, Dad. I’ll see you guys again…”   
“Bye sweetheart!” my mom calls.  
Well. That’s over. I hold **the** phone in both hands and wonder if they’ll be okay. Aw, what am I thinking? Of course they’ll be okay. They have each other. I jump off **the** bed and sort through my jeans on **the** floor, searching for that slip of paper…  
Here it is. I read **the** number on **the** scrap, and then settle myself back down on **the** bed as I dial it. I cross my fingers, hoping **with** all my heart that Eric will be awake.  
 _Brrr-ring. Riiiing._ I’m still holding on here… please pick up **the** phone.  
“Hello?” A voice blurred by sleep, and sounding for all **the** world like a man who’s all partied out. Wonder how long **the** poor guy was up…  
“Hello Eric. It is Marieke.” And it is a shock to go back to speaking English. My tongue feels heavy as I sort out **the** right words in my mind. “I want to do **the** job.”  
There’s a pause, and then Eric asks, “The job…? Oh, right, my offer! That’s great!”   
“What do I do?” I ask.  
He tells me, “Come to **the** hotel when you’re up. I’ll meet you outside. Here, I’ll tell you **the** address… do you have a pencil ready?”   
I translate his words and then hop off **the** bed, searching wildly for a writing utensil. There’s a pencil just on **the** bedside table, and I jump back onto **the** bed and give **the** affirmative.  
He gives me **the** address, his voice thick but definitely coherent, and I write it down feverishly. Then he finishes, “It’s good to talk to you, Marieke. I’ll see you at **the** hotel in a little while.”   
“Goodbye,” I say, and hang up **the** phone. Time to get going.  
***  
There’s **the** hotel. Which means there’s my reason to park **the** car. I pull over into **the** lot and angle **the** rental car neatly into a free space. Oh, and now I can see trucks, presumably used for transporting Zoo TV equipment. It excites me to no end. Will I be in one of those trucks or buses soon?  
I slip out of **the** seat and head confidently towards **the** door outside **the** hotel. Then it hits me strongly. Once I’m in, how will I find Eric’s hotel room?  
Unsure, I take a glance back to my car. My suitcase is already all packed. It comes to me that maybe I should have talked to Lina about sending some of my stuff from home out here…  
This plan is faultier than I’ve realized.  
Feeling like an idiot, I return to **the** car and moodily lean back on **the** hood. I concentrate on making my expression look tough, a face that tells others to back off. No one wants to come near me, and I wonder how long I can ward people off before Eric comes out of **the** building.  
A bird flies overhead. I settle myself onto **the** car hood fully and count **the** clouds overhead, white cream puffs set in a blue sky. Maybe I should just drive back to **the** hotel and work out my idea. But before I can take any action, a familiar face comes out from **the** door.  
I leap off **the** car and rush towards him. He sees me and takes my hand as I approach. “Hello, you,” Eric murmurs, and I now recognize his hair color in **the** light. It’s not quite brown or red, somewhat of a rusty mix between them, a bit curly and windswept. I smile into his face, **the** green eyes **dancing** above freckly cheeks, and think he looks more Irish than American.  
“I wasn’t expecting you to come so early,” he tells me, releasing my grip.  
“But it is next to nine o’clock,” I say.   
He checks his wrist for **the** always-present watch and laughs. “Oh, you’re right. Do you consider that to be late?”   
“Not really.” I take a step back from him, suddenly feeling that we’re too close. “May I go in?”   
Eric takes a glance back to **the** hotel, looking wary. “Um. I don’t… think that’s a good idea.”   
“Why?” It seems odd that I came all **the** way out here just to be denied entrance to **the** hotel.  
“Because… well, because no one actually knows I invited you to come on tour.” He watches my face for a reaction before continuing, “And **the** band doesn’t like to hire fans for their crew.”   
My face falls. Why **the** hell would Eric even invite me, if he thought they wouldn’t take me on?  
Watching my expression, Eric seems to grow more uncomfortable. “Gosh! I’m sorry about confusion, Marieke.”   
“But I’m still doing it?” I cut in.  
He runs his fingers through his hair and sighs, “I guess. I mean, I feel bad for making you leave again. I’m sure you’re prepared for **the** job and, well, I can’t turn you down.”   
I wait, raising one eyebrow.  
“Let’s just hope **the** guys won’t be angry when they find you,” Eric finally concludes, and turns me around. “How’d you like to be given a tour of **the** buses?”   
I nod, signaling what I want, and he leads me off. I eye **the** hotel we scurry away, and think that Bono could never drive me off. I’d be _very_ persistent.  
“What do you do?” I ask as Eric gestures to **the** trucks. They’re even bigger up close.  
He gives a short laugh and says, “Nothing important. For a tour this big, a lot of manpower was needed. So all I do, really, is help set up and tear down **the** stage props. It’s a simple job to get paid for.”  
“Are **the** TV… screens in there?” I ask, pointing to **the** truck.  
He nods. “Oh, yes. Among other supplies.” I stare so long that he has to tear me away to get us moving again. “And here are **the** buses. My second home.”   
They aren’t so impressive, but they’re **the** place I’ll be riding in for this tour. There sure are a lot, for all **the** many people accompanying **the** band on Zoo TV. I assume **the** band gets to ride in **the** biggest and best bus of all.  
“This is mine,” Eric says, pointing me towards a certain one. “And that is where you’ll be spending most of today.”   
Wait… I don’t want to be crammed in a bus all day. When do we get lunch? Where are we going next, anyway? Is **the** next tour date in Spain? Or do we have to get on a plane and fly over ocean? _What **the** HELL have I gotten myself into?_  
I turn to Eric, my frantic panicking clear on my face. He looks alarmed, and blurts “What’s wrong?” as I grab his arms.  
“I don’t know!!” I’m terrified. Eric holds me carefully, his confusion evident. I don’t blame him one bit.  
“Where…? When…? Oh!” I try to pull away from Eric, but he squeezes me into place. “Calm down. You’re just confused. Calm down.”   
**The** murmur sounds like Bono’s whisper to me onstage, **the** time I danced **with** him. I do as Eric says and calms down, and he finally releases me- and I think his embrace was probably just an excuse to touch my body. Except Eric had never taken an interest in that…  
“Um. What was that?” he asks.  
“I don’t know.” Take things one step at a time… I hold myself back from bombarding Eric **with** my questions. First things first… “Where is **the** next show?”  
Eric relaxes, and says, “In Oviedo, Spain.”   
I haven’t heard of that place, but at least we’re still on **the** same continent. I realize that Eric wouldn’t have said we were traveling on **the** bus if he hadn’t meant it. Maybe later we’ll go by plane, but I trust Eric to be right- we’re spending **the** day on **the** bus.  
I circle around him, and he shifts his weight. **The** first question has cleared up more than I asked- but there’s one other fact I need to know. “How long is Zoo TV?”  
Eric counts briefly in his head. **The** response is, “I don’t really know.”  
Before I can say anything, he adds, “But this is almost **the** last leg.”   
So maybe I won’t be away from home for that long. If I ever get bored of it I guess I can always quit anyway. Though I know I could never get bored of Zoo TV.  
I open my mouth and start to say something else, but am shut up by Eric’s glance. He looks over his shoulder, and I spy a large group of people leaving **the** hotel in separate clumps.  
Eric murmurs, “The crew. I don’t think **the** band should see you when they come out! Go into that bus.” He points it out to me, and I begin to rush over when something occurs to me.  
“Eric, I have a… bag in there,” I say, pointing out **the** car. “The car is not mine.”  
He looks at me confusedly. “Why don’t you just give me **the** keys? I’ll take it back to **the** rentals for you.”  
Relaxing, I reach into my pocket and hand him **the** car keys. Then I obey his command and go to **the** bus. **The** door’s unlocked and I haul myself into a seat.  
Watching out **the** window, I notice a man striding over to Eric. It’s **the** other crew member I met before, Jack. What a surprise! Are these to be **the** only men I meet in **the** crew?  
Jack and Eric converse. I can’t hear any of their words- darn glass- but I see Eric motioning **with** my keys and Jack nodding at **the** car. Then Eric drops them into Jack’s hand and **the** other man dashes off.  
Eric turns to **the** bus and spies my face peeping out **the** window. He steps up and joins me on **the** inside.  
“Hey. I let Jack take your car back. He’s going to bring you your stuff.”   
“All right…” I trail off and look around. “When is it going?”   
Eric flips his wrist upwards and checks **the** watch. “It’s a quarter to ten now. We’re leaving when everything’s set and packed up.”   
I contemplate. I guess it won’t be that boring stuck in **the** bus until we get moving. “All right…”   
He’s already backing out. “I’m sorry, but I have to go join **the** others now. They’ll need my help packing up. I’ll tell **the** driver of this bus that you’re in here, so it won’t come as a shock.”   
I nod.  
“Bye Eric.”  
He is gone.  
I follow him **with** my eyes. He slips across **the** parking lot and bumps into Jack, who is returning **with** my suitcase in tow. I stiffen as Eric murmurs something to him, and Jack continues on his way. He reaches **the** bus and climbs up **the** steps.  
“Here you go,” is his curt remark as he hands over my stuff. I take **the** suitcase and squint my eyes, trying to place his accent. It’s not quite Irish or British, but there’s definitely a hint of **the** United Kingdom in there.   
As Jack is turning to go, I ask, ”Where are you from?”   
He spins back to face me, his eyes wide. “I’m… well, I _live_ in Scotland.”   
But is that where he’s from? Wow, U2 gets their crew from all over.  
He stands, waiting, and when I give him **the** “All right” he blinks, turns, and walks out. I can’t fail to notice that he hasn’t gotten over his staring-at-me issue.  
I return to my pastime- gazing out **the** window. Eric is gone now, but there are some other crew members milling about. My eyes blur and **the** scene disappears. My imagination floods over.  
Surely **the** band won’t get rid of me. How can I go back to Holland now? They’d basically be denying me my greatest dream… and I sincerely doubt anyone would want to do that. Especially a band that is living their own dream.  
Ahhh… I shake myself out of my head and focus on **the** outside again. **The** crew’s still loading equipment, and when I catch flashes of twisted copper hair I know it’s Eric. Farther away, a few men are still leaving **the** hotel- wait. It’s awfully coincidental that **the** man in **the** lead is swathed in black leather.  
I watch **the** group of four, **with** additional bodyguards, as they wheel around and go off on their own separate ways. It’s surprisingly amusing- why is Bono wearing black on such a warm day, and why are they all ignoring each other? A low chuckle is emitted before I notice.  
They’re not going to drive me away. I can be a good fan and not try anything naughty. I lean my head onto **the** glass and think. How about a brief nap before we leave…  
***  
       Sunlight beams down as **the** four members of U2 leave **the** hotel. Portugal in May is bright, sunny- a perfect Sunday, not quite noon yet. There’s an incessant chatter among **the** guys and their guards- for once everyone is unusually talkative, even stony Larry. They talk and joke like **the** best friends they are, but it begins to die down as **the** band members must head their own ways.  
       Bono playfully waves goodbye to Larry and Edge, his mouth still moving as he engages Adam back into **the** conversation. **The** bassist doesn’t look very engaged, however. He is frowning at **the** sunny sky.  
     “Why aren’t we taking a plane this time? **The** buses are so much slower, and a waste of gas for another matter.”  
       A sigh- not a tired or annoyed sigh, just a content one- slips out of **the** side of Bono’s mouth. “Remember **the** times when we didn’t have our own airplanes, before we got big? That’s why.” Adam doesn’t bother to ask what Bono means by that.   
       Bono doesn’t really care anyway. At least it will be a longer ride, which means more time for writing lyrics. There are a few he’s toying with, ideas that may or may not be on **the** new LP. Bono’s not sure if **the** band can finish them in time, but he can’t just let them go. And then there’s that frustrating “babble” song… Hm. You never know what needs to be changed.  
     “Well, I’m taking off,” Adam says. He strolls away, calling over his shoulder, “See you, B!”  
Bono calls back, “See you,” and then heads off on his own direction. Funny how **the** world’s biggest rockstar can stand outside of a hotel and talk without interruption from anything… He smiles at **the** idea.   
A face catches his eye from **the** inside of one of **the** buses. Is that… no, it’s not a woman. There aren’t any females who would be on **the** bus anyway. Bono sighs and continues his walk, wondering for a second where Jack had gotten that suitcase.


	10. Chapter 10

“How did you become a U2 fan, Marieke?”

“How did you become a U2 fan, Marieke?”   
**The** sights outside **the** window flash past- buildings, cars, a few trees. I settle myself a little better in **the** sticky bus seat and uncross my legs. Eric’s face is expectant, his smile open and warm. I bend my head over **the** English phrasebook I retrieved from my suitcase and flip **the** pages for help in getting my meaning across.  
“I was 17 years and I Will Follow was on **the** radio a lot.”   
“ You liked it?” His body is facing **the** aisle, turned away from **the** man sharing his seat. Apparently none of **the** other Zoo TV crew wanted to sit beside me, **the** hot Dutch woman. Whatever, it’s kind of nice being alone for **the** ride. At least I get **the** window seat- and Eric’s completely occupied **with** me.  
“I loved it!” I exclaim, answering his query. “I love Boy. It’s a favorite.”  
“Is it your favoriteU2 album?”   
Shaking my head at **the** interrogation, I lower my head and locate a few more words. **The** bouncing of **the** bus is giving me a bit of a headache, and reading is definitely not helping me out. Sigh.  
“Achtung Baby is fantastic!” He laughs, and I’m pleased at my correct usage of **the** word. “But I liked War first. My favorite is New Year’s Day.”   
“That’s a good one,” Eric says, and **the** guy next to him sighs. I can practically read his mind- w _hy don’t you just sit next to her?_ “So what about-“  
I stop Eric by holding up my hand. He responds to **the** gesture by quieting, just like Lina. I giggle inwardly and tell him, “What about you?”   
“What about me?” His voice falls a bit. “There’s nothing to say about me. What do you want to know?”   
It takes me a while, but I finally ask “How long were you working for U2?”   
Eric exhales and leans back, almost bumping into his seat partner. **The** latter glares and goes back to reading his book- an action I can’t fathom **the** reasons behind. My headache is really killing me.  
“I was following **the** band during Lovetown, even though I wasn’t a fan. I was actually a radio DJ.” He laughs, face reddening as he glances sideways to gauge my reaction. I nod- “Go on…?”   
“Well. I had some kind of music experience- if you can call it that- and **the** U2 organization hired me for Zoo TV. I’ve been working on every single leg so far. It’s going to be exciting to see where this all ends up.”   
“Where did you live?” I ask him, curious about these American places.  
“Miami. I was there when **the** tour began. I saw **the** opening night.” I bite my tongue, a wave of jealousy sweeping over me.  
“Marieke, you have no idea what you’re in for. Zoo TV is **the** craziest tour I’ve ever heard of.” His face brightens. “You’re going to love working behind **the** scenes.”   
Well, it’s never right to make assumptions of me, but I bet Eric’s got his spot on. Who w _ouldn’t_ love working on tour? I scoot back to **the** window and press my forehead against **the** cool glass, closing my eyes. **The** joggling of **the** scenes outdoors turns to black, and I zone out again. A few more moments of rest might take **the** headache away.  
“Marieke?”  
“Shh…”  
***  
Jagged half-dreams invade my waking moment, and I flip around **with** squinty eyes to find Eric bending over me.  
“Hey. Wake up, sleepy,” he greets me.  
“Mmmrghuuhph.”   
His eyes are teasing as he leans closer to murmur in my ear. “It’s lunchtime.”   
I sit up reluctantly, expecting to find **the** bus parked in a lot. Instead, to my disappointment we are… still moving. **The** numbed aching in my head begins to come throbbing back.  
“Why?” I ask simply, inadvertantly reaching out and latching onto Eric’s arm.  
He laughs awkwardly when I won’t let go. “Why what?”  
“Still… moving,” I sigh, and release my grip. My ponytail’s gotten all out of wack. It’s easier to just pull **the** elastic out and let **the** strands of hair waft over my face.  
Eric crashes back down, changing from half-standing to sitting heavily. He watches me closely as I try to fix my hair up, untangling it.  
“Where does food come from?”   
“Um, you’re really tired, aren’t you?” is his reply. That snaps **the** fuzzy-headedness out of me. “No, I’m not!” What could I have said wrong?. “Where does **the** food come from?”   
“We’re not stopping to go to a restaurant,” Eric says. “We need to get to Oviedo, and it takes… let’s see, seven, maybe nine hours on **the** average bus. So there’s not going to be any stopping.” He hands me a plastic bag.  
I open it. **The** sandwich inside is tomato- and leaking. I make a face and bite into it unhappily. Eric stares at me. “It’s okay, isn’t it? I tried my best. Do you not like tomato…?”  
“No,” I stop him. “It’s good.” He doesn’t quite seem convinced, so I give him a wide-eyed, cheesy smile and munch on **the** sandwich. This gets a laugh from Eric and settles him enough to eat his own, packed in his bag.I smile and go back to gazing out **the** window.  
A guy sitting at **the** front of **the** bus interrupts my mind. “Hey, nice hips,” he calls, obviously directed to me. I bristle- he can’t even get a good view of them when I’m sitting down! However, I have gotten that remark before, along **with** nastier ones about other assets, and I reply calmly, “Fuck off,” in perfect English.  
Eric is openmouthed while **the** first man guffaws. “Your girlfriend has mouth, eh, Eric?” Either this man is drunk or he’s just being a jerk for no reason. I glare.  
“Shut up.” Eric looks over at me and asks, “Where did you learn to say that?”  
“I don’t know,” I respond, seeing Lina muttering **the** F word in English all over **the** place in my mind’s eye.  
He looks wary. “Well, try not to say it again.”   
I nod, knowing that’s not a promise.  
“Eric? There are no girl jobs on Zoo TV?”   
“Hm?” He looks at me. “Why would you think that? I’ll get you a job, I promise.”   
“Because there are no girls here,” I say, sweeping my hand around to indicate **the** bus.  
Eric starts, then realizes I’m right. It can’t just be a coincidence that I got stuck **with** all **the** men.  
“Marieke…” He breathes deeply. “They’re not going to turn you down. I _won’t_ let them.”   
I stare deeply at him, and then turn my back to check **the** view outside. We’re in a city, but it’s hard to tell if we’ve reached Spain or if we’re still in Portugal.   
“What time is it?”   
Eric checks. “Three… I mean, fifteen-thirty-three.”   
Seven hours from now… That’s 20:33 tonight. Nine hours… that’s 24:33.  
It’s gonna be a long trip.  
***  
 **The** landscape of Portugal rushes past, beauty lying behind warm glass. **The** sun striking through **the** windows is soaked into his black coat, **the** leather drinking it in hungrily. He flexes his arm and feels a whisper of heat. Removing **the** garment reveals a sleeveless shirt beneath.  
Adam is sitting in **the** seat next to Edge. **The** two men are conversing. Larry is asleep in **the** front seat. Bono’s tired too, but he doesn’t want to stop writing. A breakthrough might come…  
His jumbled words on **the** paper etch out a vivid scene, **the** spring day captured well in half-sentences and random notes. Sometimes there’s nothing to do to speed up **the** writing process but describe your surroundings. An important message could leap out, tying **the** lyrics together neatly. But this hasn’t been working for Bono today.  
Out **the** window buildings are in view along **the** highway, and a billboard blasts him **with** its declaration- COLGATE TOOTHPASTE: WE’VE GOT THAT RING OF CONFIDENCE! Idly Bono writes **the** slogan down. It is crying for a place in his mind- but he certainly won’t fall into **the** trap and buy **the** product. He of all people should by all rights be **the** least likely to take **the** beguiling bait.   
**The** scene was all laid out in his mind and months later, it remains prominent. Bono takes another casual glance out **the** window and imagines **the** city at night, lights blazing and sidewalks heavy **with** people. He sees **the** cars **with** their blinding headlights that could trap, freeze, and strike a person down if they aren’t careful. In **the** midst of all this, there are **the** ads. Billboards rising everywhere, signs posted in windows, Times Square multiplied by one hundred. It’s **the** perfect Utopian, Zooropian city- but it can’t describe itself.  
Bono’s job for these past months has been to bring this city to life on paper, paper that would become audio tracks and finally a finished collection. But **the** scene hasn’t appeared quite **the** way Bono expected. Among **the** many tracks he’s working on, **the** song he’s called Zooropa for lack of a better title is **the** trickiest one to write. No sound can quite match what he sees in his head.   
Then there’s that track that won’t fit anywhere. Bono refers to it as “babble,” a song that was born from soundcheck recordings. He’s not even aware it has lyrics. **The** sound is interesting, and he wants to toy **with** it, but there’s no place available for such an ambient piece. There’s nothing to be done **with** Babble, and yet he can’t let it go.  
Bono’s about to call over to Edge, to join in on **the** conversation happening a few seats in front of him. Before he does, though, a slight thought moves across his mind. **The** band has come a long way since **the** 80’s- instead of writing about **the** American heartland, they are turning to **the** European metropolis. It’s a bit of a shock sometimes to see how far U2 has developed- able to write about polar opposites, and write it well. Well… of course that doesn’t mean it’s _easy._ Bono jumps into Edge’s conversation, and **the** thought is broken.


	11. Chapter 11

W

We arrive at **the** hotel at night. I sleep most of **the** way, and partially awake in **the** middle of **the** journey when **the** bus stops. I murmur for someone, reaching out, and Eric’s voice says, “They’re just changing drivers. Go back to sleep.” I do and now I am once again woken from my sleep by Eric, now that we’re at **the** hotel. This time he doesn’t say a word, only to ask me if I have any money for a room. I shake my head, and he shrugs. “You can stay in my room then.”   
I’m staying in Eric’s room? That sounds… well, it sounds a little too _close_ for me. I want to crash- it’s midnight now- but **the** thought of him watching me sleep freaks me out. Maybe I can stay **with** someone else.  
We enter **the** hotel, and I marvel at how **the** entourage barely gets a glance in their direction. This hotel must see greater celebrities than U2.Wait- now I’m part of **the** entourage, aren’t I? Even though I don’t actually have a job… I blink and stretch repeatedly, feeling exactly like someone who’s slept in **the** same position for too long, and look around for **the** band. I wonder if they’ve entered yet?  
While I’m scanning for **the** band, my eyes catch onto a familiar man. We’re nearing **the** counter- each of us have to get keys to our rooms- and before I can look away, he’s holding my gaze **with** bright blue eyes.  
“Mari-“   
I avert my gaze quickly and duck to **the** side of **the** crewman in front of me. My heart beats hard, and I know Bono’s recognized me. Eric spies me trying to keep a low profile and squeezes onto my other side, creating a sandwich **with** **the** unknown crewman. Eric murmurs to him, “Please stay here for a moment,” and **the** guy obeys. Eric takes his room keys and leads me away, moving in **the** opposite direction of Bono.  
But it’s too late. Once we’re away from **the** throng of people, Bono finds me all too easily. He was watching **the** entourage closely, and when we break apart from them he strides on over to our side, calling again- “Marieke?”   
Eric tries to steer me away, but I will not be steered. I break free of him and stroll up to meet Bono- he already knows I’m here, and there’s really no point in hiding from him.  
“Hello, Bono,” I murmur casually, trying to perfect my tone to normality. “How are-“   
“ _God,_ it really is… What are you doing here?” He has his jacket unzipped, arms crossed over a dark shirt that shows just **the** right amount of chest…  
I shake myself. He’s not smiling, but that doesn’t have to mean he’s angry. All I’ve heard in his voice so far was gentle disbelief. I try to work **the** words out in my head. “I’m here for y _ou.”_  
Oops. Did that sound creepy? Bono’s still not smiling, and he rocks on his feet, slowly shifting his weight. It dawns on me that he’s waiting for something… almost like an annoyed parent trying to send their child to his room.  
By now **the** rest of **the** band’s taken notice. I spy them for **the** first time, on **the** other side of **the** Zoo TV crew. Adam and Larry hang back, but Edge can’t hide his curiosity. He moves up, asking “What’s going on?”   
“Ask her,” Bono replies- not a good sign. Is he really mad at me? I look over to Edge, whose own eyes have caught on me and widened.  
“Eric said I could be in **the** crew,” I sigh, my voice scraping **the** air. “You can put me home now.”   
Now Adam and Larry are perking up their ears. Adam takes a step towards our little group. Bono turns to Edge, turns to me, stares at Eric, and then finally says, “Marieke, come on **with** me.” He turns, motioning to **the** lift.  
“Hey, wait!” Eric shouts as I follow Bono. **The** singer gives him a look. “Eric, I want to talk to Marieke alone. You can stand to be parted **with** her, can’t you?”  
I’ll willingly talk **with** Bono alone, but Eric is definitely not happy about that. He opens his mouth, and then swallows **the** words, sighing and saying, “You can find me in Room 1-37.” I nod, repeat **the** number to myself, and leave him behind. Bono and I walk into **the** lift. **The** other band members join us, and I see Adam flashing Eric a glance before **the** doors shut.  
It’s tense inside **the** lift. I want to turn and look at Bono, but I don’t dare. He punches in **the** floor number, and we zoom upwards. **The** guys are all quiet, their focus all on my face, but when I glance at them they avert their eyes and stare at **the** roof and floor, their hands or feet. Even **the** members of U2 are like any other men.  
It’s a surprise no one talks as we travel upwards. Maybe they’re waiting for me to speak first. Well, I’m not going to do that. We arrive at our floor and Bono takes my hand to lead me out. I flush- he’s so close! Then I jump as **the** other men escape. “C’mon,” Bono urges, and takes me down **the** hall to his room- or rather, his _suite._  
Bono unlocks **the** door, and I gawk while **the** others file in. **The** room is so big- so big and friendly, and that bed looks quite comfortable… I forget myself as exhaustion sweeps over. Oh, I wish I were sleeping right now… Pretty ironic considering all I’ve done on this journey to Spain is sleep.  
“I’m about to pass out,” Adam offers, voicing my thoughts. He sits down on **the** floor. Larry stays on his feet, but Edge settles himself carefully in a chair.  
“I thought you wanted to talk **with** Marieke alone,” Edge reminds his friend. He gives me a curious glance. “We’ll leave if you want, Bono.” Which makes me wonder why they came in in **the** first place.  
“Well…” Bono’s voice echoes from **the** bathroom, and I catch a glimpse of his reflection in **the** glass- “Adam’s about ready to pass out, and I know I am, so it really doesn’t matter if you stay. We should get this sorted out together.” He emerges from **the** bathroom and comes over to me. “Well now. Are you confused at all?”   
God… I answer him **with** an emphatic “Yes.”   
“I would assume that. I’m just as confused as you are, love.” Love…? I hug myself as he continues, “What brings you here?”   
“Eric…” **The** words feel hard in my mouth. “Eric said he could give me a job in **the** crew. He said you didn’t hire **the** fans. I want **the** job.”   
“What kind of job did he have in mind?” Edge wants to know.  
“I… don’t know…” My voice is faltering. “I… there are all men in jobs, and I don’t… cannot… there is nothing…”   
Bono helps me finish. “You think there’s nothing available to you? It’s all right, we won’t drive you away.”   
“Why did Eric give that offer?” Larry articulates. “That’s not his right to give. He should have consulted **with** us first…”   
“Or **the** manager at **the** very least,” Bono sighs. “Well, Marieke, I can’t say I’m happy you’re here, but then I’m too tired to stand straight.” He chuckles. “Do you have a room?”   
“Wait- so she’s staying?” Larry asks.  
Bono looks at me. “Are you?”   
My voice rushes out all at once. “I wanted always to do a job **with** **the** band! I love U2.” A few stifled laughs come from around me, but I venture on- “Don’t put me home. I will work for you.”   
Bono gazes around before setting his sights back on me. “Looks like you’re staying for now. If you really want to do this…”   
“Yes!” I emphasize.  
He smiles. “Who am I to deny you? Now back to basics. Have you got a room yet?”   
I try to answer him, but am suddenly interrupted by Larry again. “Bono, what is she going to do on tour? There’s no room for another woman here…”   
I’m unhappy. Maybe he’s just tired, but I don’t like Larry criticizing women like that. I want to defend myself, but Bono speaks for me.  
“It’s too late to be thinking about it yet, Lar. I’m dead beat.” He glances down at **the** carpet. “Adam crashed.”   
       “No, I’m awake,” Adam insists faintly, his eyes shut tight.  
       Larry glowers, but I’m too sleepy to care. Bono drags my attention back to him- “Back to **the** question! Marieke, have you got a room?”   
“I’m being **with** Eric,” I tell him.   
“You think you can find your way back?”  
“Yes,” I reply, a bit bemused. It was only down **the** hall and down **the** lift.  
He comes closer and suddenly I’m in his arms- “Take care, Marieke.” Before I can react, his body is gone from mine. I watch him stand back as I stand up and slip quietly out **the** door.   
Once she is gone, Larry faces Bono again and asks, “Tell me again. What is she going to do here?”   
      Bono runs his fingers through his hair, in need of a washing. He answers patiently- “We don’t know yet. There are plenty of jobs to go around here. I’m sure **the** crew will have an idea where to fit her.”   
       “You’re just a sucker for **the** pretty ones, Bono,” Larry complains.  
The singer sighs. “Let’s get some sleep. We’ll be refreshed in **the** morning.” He whips his head to face Edge and Adam. “Are you two staying here or what?”   
       Larry takes this as a sign to leave and opens **the** door. The Edge pokes Adam awake.  
“Get it off me,” Adam mumbles blearily.  
“Wake up,” Edge murmurs. “Time to leave.”   
       As **the** remaining three men hurry out **the** door of Bono’s suite, Edge mutters, “She won’t replace Morleigh,” before **the** door closes.  
       Bono smiles.  
                                           ***  
       I take **the** lift back down to **the** first floor and drag myself off to Eric’s room. I don’t care if it’s remotely awkward now- I have to have someplace to stay. Even though there’s no doubt I’ll be on **the** couch, like **the** months after I first moved in to Lina’s.   
I knock at **the** door and he’s there, pulling it away to reveal a light room. I stumble in, and Eric touches my arm- “The bed’s over there.” He stands nervously, waiting for something.  
“But- you-“ I protest, shaking him off me. Instead of **the** bed he offers, I fall upon **the** couch. He hovers over me, whispering my name confusedly.  
“No, you are sleeping,” I murmur back, motioning to his bed. And then darkness crashes around me. For **the** second time in a row, I sleep in my clothes.

 


	12. Chapter 12

     I jab **the** “End Call” button and groan, leaning back on **the** couch’s arm.  
“Who was that call **with**?” Eric asks as he rolls his shirt on.  
“KLM,” I answer, closing my eyes. My boss isn’t too happy that I’ve decided to extend my holiday. She especially wasn’t pleased to find I didn’t have a specific time frame in mind- “I’ll be gone for as long as **the** tour lasts, but I’m not actually sure how long that is…” I’d tried to get more information about Zoo TV out of Eric, but he couldn’t tell me much that hadn’t already told.  
“Who’s that?” he asks now, walking towards **the** bathroom.  
“My job,” I answer, and dial a new number.  
“And who are you calling now?” he asks between vigorous scrubbings of his teeth.  
Sheesh, he’s a nosy one. “Lina,” I answer. “My friend.”   
_Ring._ I wouldn’t be waking her up, would I be? I hope she’s still in **the** flat… “Eric, what day is it?”   
He comes out of **the** bathroom. “Monday, May 17th. Why?”   
Hopefully she’s at home. Maybe finishing her breakfast… There’s a good chance I can catch her before she walks out **the** door. Suddenly **the** other end picks up.  
“Lina? Hello!”   
“Lina’s…um, hi Marieke. Lina can’t come to **the** phone right now…”   
My heart sinks. “Herman?”   
“Yes, it’s me. Er, if you wanted to speak to Lina I can get her…” **The** tone of his voice is apologetic.  
“Why aren’t you at work yet?” My voice is rising.  
“I’m about to leave now, actually.” **The** sound of a toilet flushing carries over **the** line before Herman covers **the** receiver. I can still hear muffled voices on **the** other end- “Marieke? But… late… we need to… Herman, _go!”_  
Then Lina’s voice comes on. “Marieke! Hi, it’s good you called me. What’s **the** occasion?”  
“What’s your occasion that you had your boss over at your house before you went to work?”   
She heaves a sigh. “Marieke, don’t be like that. He stayed over from last night, that’s all…”  
Stayed over from last night?! I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep in that bed ever again.  
“Well, I just wanted to let you know my number for now if you want to call me.” I give her **the** phone number. “We won’t be staying in this hotel for that long though. And… Lina, I miss you.”   
“I miss you too, Marieke.” There’s a pause. “Done anything fun yet?”   
“Yesterday I spent nearly twenty-four hours on a bus. If that counts as fun…”  
She laughs. “I’ll call you again, Marieke, maybe tonight. But now I have to get to work. Oh, KLM phoned yesterday, your boss wanted to know why-“   
“It’s okay,” I cut in. “I called her this morning. Trust me, Lina, I’ve got this all figured out.”   
She doesn’t respond, and I have a feeling I know where her mind is going. Finally she speaks my thoughts- “You thought you had it all figured out last year, and look how far you got then.”   
“Lina, this time I really mean it.”   
“You’ve really meant it all your life, haven’t you? It’s never taken you anywhere.”   
“Lina…” I groan. “Please, don’t worry about me or money or anything. Life is short. There’s no time to get needlessly worked up.”   
I can picture her narrowing her eyes. “Who told you that?”   
“Goodbye,” I answer, and hang up.  
I turn to find Eric watching me, his green eyes trained firmly on my face- and not straying elsewhere. His mouth is open a bit, as if he’s surprised at my Dutch speaking. But he shouldn’t be surprised- I am Dutch after all, and it’s not like I’m fluent enough in English to disguise that.  
“What do we do now?”   
His eyes gleam. “Breakfast?”   
***  
Most hotels have free breakfast each morning for **the** current occupants. This hotel is no exception. We get a free breakfast in a dining hall all to ourselves.As I settle myself down at a table, I see many more faces from **the** Zoo TV crew that I semi-recognize. It astounds me once again that no one is giving them a glance- maybe **the** staff at **the** hotel have seen more famous occupants than that. Or maybe it’s because they’re all famous too.  
Eric comes to my table **with** his plate, but I push him away. “Go be **with** your friends. I am all right.”   
“You sure?” He’s wavering, ready to wait on my hand and foot if need be. **The** act is getting very old.  
“Go,” I insist, waving him off. He goes reluctantly, but I feel relief, and relax to eat my breakfast.  
 **The** dining room is very fancy, and there’s a buffet in **the** middle of **the** floor. I watch **the** entrances for more familiar faces- particularly four of them. Eric has gone off **with** a few from **the** crew, and I spot Jack over by **the** window alone, drinking juice. **The** guy who said I have nice hips appears to be one of Eric’s friends. I watch closely, hoping he’ll leave **the** rest of **the** group.   
There’s a flurry of voices all around, and **the** main language is Spanish. I never learned that one, only English and some Portuguese recently. **The** crew members are talking to each other in English, but as I watch one of **the** hotel staff passes by Eric, murmuring something in Spanish to him. Eric answers back fluently. I wonder how Jack’s going to get along, for his Portuguese speaking was not all that good.  
I was right- there really aren’t that many women among **the** crew. All **the** women I see in **the** room are Spanish. I turn around in my seat- and suddenly find that U2’s in **the** room. Ah… ha…  
We’re not exactlyface to face. None of them have spotted me in here yet. I slip my hand around **the** cool glass on my table and raise it to my lips, sipping **the** orange juice languidly. Even inside **the** hotel, **the** band can’t travel alone- there are a few more men in their group, probably bodyguards. Bleh. If it’s not safe in a hotel, where is it safe?  
 **The** first one to leave **the** clump is Edge. I observe him cross **the** room towards **the** buffet, gravitating to **the** food. I flip my legs and settle myself down on **the** other side of **the** chair, hoping he won’t come to sit **with** me. Why, I’m not really sure.  
But it’s not Edge I have to fear- a few moments later, someone has sat down in **the** seat across from me. Thinking it’s Bono, I meet his gaze **with** a smile.  
“Hey,” Adam says.  
“What?”   
He blinks. “I’m keeping Bono’s seat warm.”   
So it is Bono after all. Or at least it will be. I can’t think of what it will be like eating breakfast **with** him- what if I embarrass myself or him? Granted, I can’t think of what I would do to embarrass either of us- but what if? What if I lose memory of all my English words?   
“You had a good night?” Adam asks. He’s eating an English muffin **with** one hand and holding a juice glass in **the** other.   
I take in his gaze. Adam’s eyes are blue, like mine and Bono’s. He looks interested in me, a tentative smile ready to bloom on his face.  
“Yes, I slept good,” I say. “And you?”   
“It was okay,” he says, and slides out of **the** chair. “Here he comes.”   
We turn our heads in **the** same direction. Bono is striding over, his hands full **with** a plate and glass. He’s smiling, and I have to smile back. There’s a man walking **with** him- a stouter man **with** brown hair, a bit taller than Bono.  
“Hey Adam,” **the** unknown man says as they approach. Bono gives **the** bassist a glance, but I’m **the** one who has his full attention. He plops down into **the** other seat as Adam removes himself from it.  
“Good morning.” **The** grin is brighter than **the** muted sunshine from **the** window next to me. “How was your sleep?”  
“Good,” I answer. “And yours?” It doesn’t look like he slept as well as I did. His hair is all messed up, and those eyes look wearied.  
“I’m fine,” Bono answers. He takes a bite of scrambled eggs, grimaces, and quickly swallows it down. “Rule of life, Marieke- do _not_ eat eggs cooked at a hotel.”   
“Why did you?” It’s only logical to ask.  
“Because,” he sighs, “I only found out now.” I giggle. “You’d think having been on tour for as long as we have, I’d of learned that one!”   
“Em, Bono?” the other man speaks up at last. “I don’t think you’ve introduced us.”   
Bono flicks his eyes from the man to me. “Oh, I’m sorry. Marieke, this is Paul. He’s our manager…”  
“Marieke Lang,” I say, holding out my hand.  
He shakes and laughs. “Paul McGuiness.”   
I smile and swallow the last of my juice. Now my plate is clear. I start to get up, and then ask Bono, “Is it all right to go?”   
“Of course it is.” I leave the pair of men to converse.  
Back by the buffet, I put away my empty plate. The rest of the band has moved to different sections of the room. Larry is sitting with Adam at a table, next to a few more people- probably crew members. There sure are a lot of them. The Edge is standing by a window a few meters from Jack, talking with a woman I haven’t noticed until now. Who could she be?  
“Hey Marieke!” Edge calls from his location, taking notice of me. “Come over here; there’s someone you should meet.”   
I come. Edge’s warm hazel eyes fall upon me. He’s got his hair tied back in a short ponytail, and he’s wearing a nice looking black hat. Then he turns his gaze back to the woman. I copy his actions.  
She’s shorter than me but has a nice body. Her face is elongated, and her hair is dark, falling to her shoulders. One glance can tell me this- she is beautiful.  
“Hello, Marieke…?” she murmurs, mispronouncing my name. “I’m Morleigh Steinberg.”   
I take her slender hand and shake. “Marieke,” I answer back, gently correcting her, and hastily return her smile. Already I can feel her infectious warmth.  
Edge seems to be feeling it too. He looks more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. In fact, I don’t think he’s stopped smiling since I came over here. What does he want from me?  
“Are you in **the** crew?” I ask Morleigh.  
“Kind of.” Her smile grows deeper. “You’ve seen me onstage before.”   
What? Is she someone famous? I flip back in my memory for a glimpse of that face- and all at once it rushes back to me. Lina and I are **dancing** and singing, active in GA as Bono prowls **the** stage, distracted by **the** woman who’s spinning herself under his feet, scampering off whenever he tries to reach her. That woman is **the** same one who stands before me now.  
“You’re the-“ I can’t remember **the** word for her, though I know **the** word for her actions.  
“Yes, **the** dancer,” she says, sending me sighing **with** relief. “That’s **the** word!”  
She laughs shortly- one burble of beauty- and Edge says, “So, Marieke, women can get hired on tour. Morleigh here is proof of it.”   
“Oh!” I think about that. “That’s good.”   
“But you’re not taking my place,” Morleigh adds. “I’m both dancer and choreographer here, and **the** band would really miss me if I left!”   
I nod. I’m not familiar **with** **the** word “choreographer,” but apparently it’s a pretty important job. “I will not have your job; I don’t want it.”   
“Of course not,” she says. “But… well, who knows, maybe one night I’ll want a break. How well is your **dancing**?”   
From **the** way she and Edge are grinning I know she’s teasing **with** me. But I humor her back and say “I can dance all right, really.”   
Morleigh’s eyes sparkle. “Really? Can you show me your moves?”  
I shrug and think back to **the** concert I’d seen **with** Lina. We exhausted ourselves **dancing** that night. I remember **the** sound of Mysterious Ways and stretch my arms out, trying to imitate my moves from that night.  
 _Johnny take a ride **with** your sister in **the** rain_  
 _Let her talk about **the** things you can’t explain_  
 _To touch is- to heal, to hurt is- to steal_  
“If you wanna kiss **the** sky, better learn how to kneel,” I mutter to myself, and spin.  
Obviously Edge and Morleigh hadn’t been expecting me to actually do it. Edge’s eyes are **dancing** , his mouth fighting a smile. Morleigh too looks humored, but there’s another emotion behind her eyes.   
Is she taking my **dancing** s _eriously?_  
 **The** dance in GA was a bit different from what I’m doing now. I try mimicking Morleigh’s moves. Spin, sashay, kick, and thrust **with** your hips- yeah, a lot of that. I’m sure I’m giving **the** guys in **the** room quite **the** eye-feast.  
 _She’s **the** wave_  
 _She brings **the** tide_  
 _She sees **the** man inside **the** child_  
Before I let myself go into **the** chorus, I plant my feet firmly on **the** ground apart from each other and slowly bring my arms back down to normal level. It would have been easier to execute in a skirt…  
To my embarrassment, it turns out that more than half **the** room was watching. A few people yell, “Bravo!” Eric is standing while his friends clap, his eyes trained on me as if waiting for more. Morleigh calls back to me, “Good- you just might put me out of a job!” She and Edge are laughing.  
I duck my head and turn back to my table, where Bono and Paul are still sitting. Well, no- now they’ve stood up, and Paul is smiling at my performance. But not Bono. He is clapping for me firmly, though without a doubt that has to be **the** most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done. Okay… maybe that doesn’t take **the** cake… but it’s pretty high up there.  
“Thank you,” I tell him, returning to my seat.  
“You rocked,” Bono says **with** a smirk.  
“Er…?”   
“You were good.” His eyes shine. “But one of them-“ he hooks his finger towards Edge and Morleigh by **the** window- “will kill me if I fire her.”   
“I’m not that good!” I try protesting.  
“And I’m not that good at singing, but I do it anyway.”  
Eric sees us sitting together, and he slinks his way over here.  
“That was… odd. Hi, Bono, Paul,” he greets us. I’m glad that s _omeone_ agrees **with** me on my **dancing**. “When are you all leaving?”  
“Breakfast’s been served,”Bono says, smacking his hand on **the** table.  
“We’re going to head off once everyone’s eaten. I’m sure you can organize something for **the** stadium. You’ll have to get to work today, **the** show’s two days from now,” Paul addresses Eric.  
U2 is leaving? “Where are you going?” I ask Paul.  
Bono answers before Paul can. “We’re working on a new LP…” He sees my face and backtracks. “I mean, there’s a project we’re working on that needs to be finished, and we really need to get together and work on that.”   
My head spins so that I barely hear his last words. A new LP? Sure, I’ve heard it been announced before, but… good lord, **the** fact that I am in such close proximity to new songs is killing me!  
 **The** three men worriedly watch my reaction, and Bono murmurs, “Maybe we should have kept this as confidential information.”   
“Or not brought a fan along,” Paul adds. He throws Eric a brief look.  
“Just don’t let Marieke near that new material,” Eric offers, rolling his eyes at Paul.  
“What?” I ask. “I will not do anything…”   
Eric leans in and gently touches my shoulder, making me start. “Hey, we’re going to get ready to go down to **the** stadium pretty soon, you want to come **with** me?”   
I glance back at Bono. I’d rather be going **with** **the** band . But they seem convinced now that it’s not a good idea. Although what do they possibly think I could do- destroy all **the** works in progress? Snag myself a copy of **the** record? Apparently there isn’t even a record to speak of.  
“Yes, I will go,” I sigh. Eric watches me stand up. He puts his arm around me as soon as I’m ready.  
“Keep trying to find that job,” Bono suggests, and bids me farewell. I answer **with** a goodbye for him and split off in **the** opposite direction **with** Eric. If only a job weren’t so elusive!  
Joining Eric’s friends in **the** crew, I hang back while Eric talks to them. Bono is at **the** window now, cutting in on Edge and Morleigh’s conversation. He takes a second to pick out **the** other band members in **the** room. Adam seems to realize Bono is staring at him and murmurs something to **the** guys he’s hanging with- probably a goodbye- before rushing over to **the** window. Larry follows Adam and joins his friends. They converse for a moment before leaving **the** room, **the** bodyguards blending back into **the** group from nowhere. Edge kisses Morleigh’s cheek before they go, and she stares after them for a little while before turning back.  
“What do you think, Marieke?” Eric asks in response to something I haven’t heard.  
“What?”  
His friends groan.  
“I do believe it’s time to go to **the** stadium.”


	13. Chapter 13

My hands are screaming by **the** time a break comes. My arms feel like noodles, dead at my sides. I push away **the** stubborn hair that clings to my face by way of sweat.  
How I was I supposed to know setting up equipment would be so much work?  
Eric comes over to me, a water bottle clutched in his hand. I uncap it and drink deeply. There’s really no excuse for me to be so exhausted. It’s only early May- not even that hot- and so far I’ve only carried Zoo TV equipment from **the** trucks to **the** stage. It’s not even assembled yet, and I’m tired out already.  
“How do you do it?” I moan.  
“You’re such a girl,” Eric grumbles, for once not cheerful **with** me. “How heavy was **the** heaviest thing you ever lifted?”  
I think. When I moved to college I had to lift a few boxes, but they weren’t all that heavy. When I moved in **with** Lina I brought very little items. I’ve never lifted weights or anything like that, and my current job requires me to only lift a telephone.  
“Sheesh,” Eric mutters, leaning back against **the** stage. “Now we know _one_ job that’s not cut out for you.”  
“Why am I doing it?” I remind him. No one’s been able to answer that for me yet.  
He sighs. “We can’t just let you sit around.”  
I rest, leaning against **the** stage **with** Eric. Some of **the** other crew members are also resting, though no one is as tired as me. Jack splits out from his group and comes up to Eric and I. He throws **the** words at us in Dutch- “Marieke, how is work going?”  
I shrug. “How’d you learn to say that?” I ask back in my native tongue.  
Jack responds in English. “I lived in Rotterdam once, **with** some Dutch friends. They were all really nice…” He stops and greets Eric, who is watching us **with** slightly narrowed eyes.  
“You can speak Dutch?”  
“What, Eric? You didn’t know that about me? Well, you’ve learned it now.” He steps away from us and slides on past **the** stage, eventually turning his back completely.  
Eric stares after Jack but directs his words to me. “You can ignore him. Jack’s never been open **with** anyone. I barely know a thing about that man…”  
I stare after Jack too and partially block out Eric’s murmur. That’s why **the** shout startles me. “Get back to work!”  
Jack’s smiling at **the** crew, so I know he’s just joking around **with** us. But some people take it seriously and rush back to **the** equipment, ready to set it up. I heave a deep sigh and go on to join them, but Eric catches my wrist.  
“Hey. I noticed you were rubbing your hands… do they hurt?”  
“Not that bad,” I try to tell him, but he’s already massaging my hands gently, taking care not to hurt me **with** his touch. I start to protest, but then shut up because it actually feels good. I let Eric rub my hands for me, and then pull them away from him.  
Walking back to see what I can do to help **the** rest of **the** crew, I think that Eric’s gotten a bit too touchy-feely. I should probably set our boundaries before he assumes anything. Maybe I can get a room all to myself- God, **the** last time I had a room to myself was in that hotel in Lisbon. What a relief it was then! Sharing a flat **with** someone can take away your freedom.  
And **the** work continues, and I take my mind off **the** exertion by fantasizing about Wednesday, when I can just sit back and enjoy a U2 show as I’ve previously done. Maybe this time it will be even sweeter.  
 **The** guy who likes my hips has now taken a new interest in me, and tells his friend "She's got a nice ass too," as if I can't hear him or don't understand. Catch a clue, fellow.  
***  
Bono doesn’t see Marieke for a day. When he spies her again, **with** Eric in **the** stadium, he almost doesn’t recognize her. Her lustrous chestnut hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she’s wearing **the** uniform of **the** Zoo crew instead of **the** white blouse he’d seen her in a morning ago. **The** clothes don’t seem to fit her, and Bono assumes she borrowed them from Eric. **The** more he looks, **the** more Marieke appears disgusted to be wearing **the** outfit.  
“The band’s here,” Eric whispers to me. I look and spy Bono on **the** side of **the** stage, talking **with** someone. Nearby, Edge and Adam are meeting **with** their technicians, probably getting instruments. I don’t see Larry yet- oh wait, now he’s in view, sticking a pair of drumsticks into his pocket. **The** sun blinds me for a moment, and I blink, shaking Eric off when he moves closer.  
“Marieke, I want to go.”  
“You said you’d bring me to see soundchecks,” I remind him. “I want to change now.”  
Eric frowns and says nothing. I climb up onto **the** stage, making out to **the** side that Bono’s standing at.  
Marieke’s left Eric now and is onstage, heading towards Bono himself. **The** singer smiles. “Hey!”  
Eric’s hovering around **the** foot of **the** stage, watching Marieke and Bono **with** a worried, partially murderous expression. It makes Bono want to laugh. He tells **the** guy to chill- “You’ve had her all day, haven’t you? It’s only fair I get my turn.”  
And then moves on to **the** pressing topic. “What are you doing here?”  
I stare into Bono’s lovely face. He’s not wearing **the** leather jacket right now, but **the** Fly shades are on. It unsettles me a bit before I decide it’s probably easier not seeing his eyes and answer **the** question. “I wanted to see **the** soundchecks. I’m just changing clothes now.”  
“Right _now?_ Slow down, girl!” Bono gasps, feigning shock.  
I give him a withering look. It does nothing to stop his smile. “Come on, it was a joke.”  
“You’d better hurry up, Marieke,” Adam calls to us from **the** stage. He’s holding a bass guitar now, and I can imagine is impatient to start playing. “We need to practice.”  
“We’re not staying?” I ask.  
Bono shrugs. “You can stay if you want to.” He watches Marieke dash backstage to change clothes. Once again, he wonders what job she can be hired for.  
I return in my old outfit to **the** sound of Edge’s guitar. Before leaving **the** stage I stand for a moment, trying to decipher which song it is. It doesn’t take me too long to realize it’s Zoo Station.  
 **The** full band is onstage now, and some crew members I haven’t noticed are going around **the** stadium, making sure **the** sound is doing what it’s supposed to. Bono comes over to me at **the** side of **the** stage- “You look lost.” I wasn’t aware I looked like anything, and ask, “The showis tomorrow?”  
“Yeah, we’re just rehearsing today. Helps you get in practice if you start a day early, you know?” I don’t know, but I’d rather hear Bono speak to me than tell him that.  
I hop down from **the** stage and stand back, pretending I’m in GA. **The** band looks pretty good from this distance, and **the** sound is excellent. Edge stops playing for a moment to adjust something, and in that moment Eric calls, “You’re staying here?”  
I nod. “I’ll be all right,” I tell him, convinced that nothing could happen to me here in **the** stadium. He looks unsure, but finally leaves me alone.  
 **The** other instruments- bass and drums- have their turn to practice. I’m impatient for Bono’s vocals, but I guess I’ll have to wait a bit. We did a good job of setting up **the** mics- they collect **the** sound and fling it back to **the** audience perfectly, **with** no feedback.  
Bono peers into **the** imaginary audience. He sees Marieke standing down there in **the** general admission seats, her eyes shining up at him. He yanks a microphone off its stand and sings without warning. “Time is a train, it makes **the** future **the** past. Leaves you standing in **the** station…”  
“Your face pressed against **the** glass,” I mouth. Bono notices that and gives me a smile and something of a nod.  
“Straight from **the** top?” Edge asks.  
“From **the** top,” Bono answers, and they run back onstage as Edge begins **the** riff for Zoo Station.  
Bono practices **the** high kicks. He doesn’t look into **the** audience again, but he bets Marieke is watching him.  
As soon as **the** kicking begins, I am riveted on his legs, sheathed in black leather pants. Leather pants… gosh, who ever thought of that invention? I want to give them a huge hug and a hearty word of thanks.  
Bono slinks onto **the** front of **the** stage. He’s gotten very good at playing **the** part of a self-absorbed rock star, something that he definitely was _not_ in **the** 80’s. Creating **The** Fly was **the** best thing he could have done for himself at that point. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration… but it really has brought **the** shift from 80’s hardworking band to 90’s devil-may-care band along more easily. Bono had to turn into someone else to accept **the** change.  
“I’m ready, I’m ready for **the** laughing gas…” He’s so incredibly close to me, and I scream without thinking. “YEEAAAAAAAAAAAH!” That brings **the** performance to a standstill.  
When **the** music abruptly shuts off, I stop shrieking. Larry stands up from behind **the** drum kit and asks, “Can you control yourself or do you have to leave?”  
“Cut her some slack, Larry, she’s a fan like all **the** others,” Bono admonishes him. “You’ve dealt **with** thousand s more of them at a time than her.” He looks calm and addresses me now- “It’s okay Marieke, you can stay here. It’s good practice for tomorrow night- there will be many more fans than you.”  
I nod, but am ashamed. Larry is sitting back at **the** drums, but he’s looking at me oddly, like he wants to get rid of me. I can’t blame him. I thought I could handle being alone **with** **the** band and then ended up acting all crazy.  
“You’re not going to be in general admission tomorrow night though; all **the** spots are sold out,” Bono mentions, still talking to me. I think I can see Larry sigh, annoyed.  
“Will I be in **the** show?” I ask.  
Bono isn’t sure. “You don’t have tickets, but we could let you watch from backstage. Would that please you?”  
What? He doesn’t have to ask. “I’d love it!”  
“Can we _please_ get back on track, Bono?” Larry leans against **the** drums and rests his head on his hand.  
“In a very, very short minute,” Bono says. He addresses me again- “You’ll do it?”  
“Yes,” I breathe. **The** thought of watching a U2 concert from backstage is mind-boggling.  
“All right.” Behind his shades I see him wink. “See you there, love.” And **the** band starts up again, leaving me without any air to speak of.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Back at **the** hotel I sit on **the** couch and dial my home number. “Hello, Lina? There’s something I’ve forgotten to tell you, I need some clothes and stuff… You can post them to me at this address. Got a pen on you…? Yes, tomorrow’s **the** next show.”  
***  
Bono shakes his head fondly as he removes his jacket and flops down on **the** bed in his suite. Normally he wouldn’t hire fans for any kind of business, but… Marieke. What an interesting girl. Shame that Eric collected her before **the** band reached **the** encore soundcheck…  
***  
At **the** right time Eric and I take a bus down to **the** stadium. We get in before any of **the** fans, waiting to enter **the** show in long lines. I reach **the** stage first and go back behind **with** Eric.  
U2 are in their dressing rooms, preparing for **the** show. Bono is sitting in front of a dressing table, staring at himself in **the** mirror. Edge is standing in a corner, pressed against a wall, and Adam and Larry are in chairs, **the** former smoking. A few people, presumably stylists, are hurrying about, trying to prep **the** band up before they take **the** stage.  
“Hello,” I greet everyone in **the** room.  
Bono removes his gaze from his reflection. “Hello,” he murmurs absently. As an afterthought- “Hi, Eric.”   
“Hey, Bono,” Eric murmurs back, trying to catch **the** singer’s attention. Bono, however, is occupied.  
“Are you ready for this?” Edge asks, sidling up to me after breaking free of **the** pushy stylists.   
“Yes,” I answer. “I’m ready for what’s next!”   
“Ready to duck, ready to dive, ready to say I’m glad to be alive…” Bono picks up **the** song from where I left it.  
“I’m ready…” Edge sings along. “For **the** push.”   
A giggle spreads among us. Adam decides to join in on **the** singing. “The cool of **the** night meets **the** warmth of **the** breeze.”   
Bono instantly starts singing **with** him. I can understand his reasons- Adam doesn’t have much of a voice. “I’ll be crawling around on my hands and my knees…”   
I imagine Bono searching for something on **the** floor. It’s not a bad image.  
“ZOO STATION!!!” Edge cries, making us jump.  
“Jeez, Edge,” Bono grumbles, but he’s smiling. Adam claps for us. I notice that **the** only two who didn’t join in singing are Eric and Larry. Obviously they’re left out.  
I come over and touch Eric. “You can sing too.”   
He’s blushing. “No, I don’t think I can beat Bono.”  
“Hell, you can’t be as bad as Adam,” Larry mutters.   
“Or me,” I suggest. “It’s not a…”  
“Contest?” Eric offers.  
“Yes.”   
“How many more minutes till **the** band hits **the** stage?” Eric asks. Bono hears **the** question and responds **with** , “What time is it?”   
Eric just stares at him, and then hauls his wrist to eye level, exaggerating **the** movement. “You’re not due onstage for a while.”   
“Yes, but what time is it?” Bono persists, not bothering point out that Eric has just answered his own question.  
“It’s eight… I mean twenty-fifty-six.”   
Bono sighs and stands, pacing **the** floor.  
I look for a place to sit and end up taking Bono’s chair. I stare deep into my own eyes and try to locate myself. Who am I? I stroke **the** mirror, almost without a thought.  
 **The** girl’s face in **the** mirror is flushed, her blue eyes **dancing**. A few loose strands of hair have fallen from her ponytail. I blink and we connect, and I push **the** strands of hair back.   
“Hey…” **The** soft murmur comes from behind, and I turn and come face to face **with** Bono, who’s staring curiously into my eyes.  
“What it is?”   
“Oh, nothing…” He sighs and looks up. “You just took my seat…”   
Is he really upset about it? He’s sending obvious signs that he’s uncomfortable **with** something, or maybe worried. But I know Bono’s not worried about me…   
“What’s wrong?”   
He chuckles nervously. “You can tell?”   
“Tell? What’s wrong?”  
He leans over me. I’m not aware that anyone else is in **the** room. “You’d think by now I’d be used to it-“   
Thinking he’s stalling, I blurt, “ _What?”_  
Bono’s blue eyes drill into my own, and his arm slides around **the** back of my chair, our bodies only separated by **the** thin plastic. “Nothing, I’m just nervous for **the** show. It sometimes happens…”   
Hearing him say that, so close to my face, makes him seem more real to me. It occurs to me that Bono might not just be an awesome rock star- he’s a person too. Our gazes lock and neither of us blink until Bono pulls away. I search **the** dresser wildly and - “Here,” I say, handing Bono **the** Fly sunglasses.  
He takes them, rubs his thumb reflexively across **the** lenses, and then slips them onto his face. “Become one **with** **The** Fly, Bono…!” he intones playfully.  
“You are **The** Fly,” I tell him, getting to my feet and taking a step forward towards Bono. He takes a step back, maintaining that frustrating distance.  
“Hey!” Eric’s call jolts me back to **the** world. I remember we have company and glance guiltily up. “Marieke, don’t you go trying anything **with** Bono, **the** band does have a show tonight.”   
Snickers come from **the** peanut gallery of Adam, Edge, and Larry. **The** Fly speaks in place of Bono- “You sure? It really wouldn’t take that long. Just a few minutes and her mind’s blown, leaving me ready for **the** concert.” He shrugs, sounding perfectly serious.  
“God!” I exclaim, and stalk away to join **the** rest of **the** band. “How can you live **with** him?” I ask, gesturing to **The** Fly.  
“It’s only been a year we’ve had to put up **with** _that_ side of him,” **The** Edge lets me know. “But trust me, **the** real Bono can be just as irritating.”   
“Come now, is that a thing you would say to a friend?” Bono asks, becoming himself again.  
“Well,” I start blithely, “You know a friend is someone who lets you help…”   
“It’s no secret that a liar won’t believe anyone else!” Adam sings along.  
Larry clutches **the** sides of his head. “Ears… bleeding…”   
And Eric calls to us all. “Showtime!”   
**With** a few winks at me, **the** band leaves **the** room.  
***  
 **The** show begins. Eric and I sit on **the** sidelines and watch it all unfold. I’m not sure what I was expecting- maybe I thought **the** view would be better from backstage, but it just feels… strange. Like I should be enjoying **the** show from general admission **with** other fans of my kind, instead of standing back here **with** Eric.  
Bono prances along **the** stage, singing his heart out. “You’re honey child to a swarm of bees, gonna blow right through you like a breeze. Give me one last chance to slide down **the** surface of things…”  
I can’t stop myself from cheering loudly from backstage. Bono takes a camera off its stand and sings, “Even better than **the** real thing, child…” My heart trembles. He presses **the** camera to his face and smiles broadly, turning **the** view onto Edge. **The** screens fill **with** **the** guitarist’s image, gently strumming his guitar. Then Bono flips it around and turns **the** view onto himself. Sweat is rolling off his face already.  
Eric watches me closely. “You like?”   
“I love it!” I scream, and dance. Then someone taps my shoulder- **the** true dancer has come.  
Morleigh is up by my side and waits for her appearance in **the** next song. She’s all prettied up, **with** a veil over her face and a wavy skirt clinging to her hips. “Hello, Marieke,” she murmurs in her soft voice. “Now that you’re here, are you sure you don’t want to take my place?”  
“Never,” I state firmly.  
Her mouth is glimmering into **the** presence of a smile. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”   
“Child…” Bono sings from **the** stage, setting **the** camera down on **the** floor and smiling at it from above.  
“My turn,” Morleigh mutters, and we wait together for Mysterious Ways to begin.  
A flying object comes skittering among my feet- Bono’s taken his shades off and thrown them backstage. I pick them up and set them carefully onto my face, trying to keep my expression stony. Eric stares at me, an amazed smile spreading across his features. I thrust my face into his- these shades really do give you self-confidence- and he just bursts out laughing. A second later, Morleigh is off bobbing across **the** stage.  
We watch her from backstage and smile whenever she comes close to us. Eric gives her **the** thumbs up. As she sashays past Edge, I notice him concentrating hard on **the** guitar. In a few minutes Bono passes Edge too, hanging on to him with one hand before going on to be tempted by Morleigh. The chemistry between **the** two is beautiful- Bono tries in vain to catch Morleigh as she moves delightfully around him, skittering away when he tries touching her. Bono gives up and moves to **the** back of **the** stage, letting out one last call of “Lift my days- light up my nights,” before **the** song ends and One comes on.  
       From that brief excursion on stage, Morleigh returns breathless. She smiles at Eric and I before heading off to change.  
       I resume my cheering from backstage and sing along. Eric keeps watching me dance. When I look over, his eyes move to **the** view onstage. He doesn’t bring it back to me for two entire songs.  
Then my hands shoot into **the** air and I scream along **with** Bono, “YEEEEAAAHHH!”   
       True, I have seen New Year’s Day live twice before. But now I’m practically on **the** stage- or at least a few steps will take me there. **The** sound is so incredibly clear- I can practically feel Adam plucking those strings. The Edge is **the** closest band member to me, and I watch his hands shift from piano to guitar with unusual ease.  
       Now Bono’s vocals come in, and it’s all over for me. **The** tenderness **with** which he sings **the** first line- “All is quiet on New Year’s Day-“ brings tears to my eyes, something this song hasn’t done since **the** first few times I heard it. I can only clap and lean against Eric, who’s somewhat surprised but doesn’t refuse me.  
       Once it ends, I breathe a small sigh of pleasure.  
     Now comes **the** change in **the** set. I’m not prepared for **the** next song- to my surprise a certain drummer comes up and takes **the** mic. My eyes widen **with** shock. Larry looks calm under **the** lights. He starts to sing a song I only half-recognize… what’s it called?  
       “I met my love by **the** gas works wall, dreamed a dream by **the** old canal, kissed a girl by **the** factory wall… dirty old town, dirty old town…”  
     Oh, right, **the** song is Dirty Old Town. Heh. I like **the** sound of his voice- kind of deeper than I was expecting. He sings it beautifully, his eyes focusing on something just above his head, and then it’s over.  
The band moves down to the B stage where their equipment is already set up. They play Angel of Harlem. Then Bono takes the mic and shouts rather than singing. “Hey ey yeah, yeah!  
“I was a sailor, I was lost at sea, I was under the waves before love rescued me! I was a fighter, I could turn on a thread, now I stand accused of the things I’ve said!” He holds himself in a strange posture, daring us to question his words- “Who, me?”   
I cheer along with the Rattle And Hum tune- another favorite album of mine. The live version is somewhat watered down, though. I have to crane my head to see the band out on the B stage, and even then I can only see their backs. But I don’t need to be near them to tell that Bono isn’t singing now.  
“I was there when they crucified my lord. I held the scabbard when the soldier threw his sword. I rolled the dice when it pierced His side, but I’ve seen love conquer the Great Divide.” The sheer beauty of this voice astounds me, and I realize it’s Edge singing. What a Lina-like move, I tell myself. Drooling over his voice…  
Now U2 is returning to the B stage, but Edge begins a riff before they’re completely over there. I nearly fall backwards when I realize what the song he’s starting is. Bono holds the microphone close to himself and sings.  
“I have climbed highest mountains, I have run through the fields, only to be with you. Only to be with you…”   
Here’s a tune I thought I’d never get to experience live. This amount of 80’s music makes me feel both hopeful and nervous at the same time. Maybe they’ll bring back some of my all time favorites from Rattle And Hum- but will that mean dropping the Achtung Baby songs?  
I twist a little on my feet, and Eric’s eyes light up. We start singing along together, not fully aware of our actions. I’m used to singing low notes, but I thread my voice through his perfectly all the same.  
“But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for… but I still haven’t found what I’m looking for…”   
All of a sudden it’s over and the magic of being inside the song is gone. Eric and I stare at each other, and then we both grin simultaneously as the band begins Satellite of Love.  
When Bullet The Blue Sky starts I zone out. I really don’t like this song at all. Even hearing Edge’s epic live guitar solo does nothing for me…  
Wait. Bono is leaving the stage and heading straight for me. What does he want?  
I let him pass me, running swiftly. He doesn’t even give me a nod in the Fly shades. I take them off and slip them into Eric’s hand, and follow Bono all the way back into the dressing room.  
He’s anxious. “Hand me that jacket, will you?” he asks, gesturing to a rack of clothes. I take the jacket he wants- it says Zoo TV on the back- and he slides it on, at the same time telling me to get a certain hat. “And that belt, please, Marieke?”  
Mystified, I hand the objects over to him, and he dons them with confidence. Stepping back, memory sparks and I remember what happened during the previous performances of Bullet The Blue Sky. Bono made a clothing change- maybe it’s another character I know nothing about. He replaces the mic in his hand with a clip-on microphone.  
       We walk back to the stage- him hurrying a bit more than I am- and when Edge’s solo finishes, Bono strides out to the cue in the music. “Yeah…” he murmurs softly.  
       “So this guy comes up to me, his face red like a rose on a thornbush… like all the colors of a royal flush, and he’s peeling off those dollar bills, slapping ‘em down… One hundred!” He mimes throwing dollars to the floor. “Two hundred!” Slap. “Three hundred!” He makes a swinging golf club motion on that. “Four hundred…  
“And I can see those fighter planes! I can see those fighter planes… UHHH!” He throws his hands in the air and scours the sky for “those fighter planes.” Then he begins to slowly clap along to the bassline.  
“Across the mud-huts the children sleep… through the alleys, the quiet city streets… We take the staircase to the first floor, turn the key and slowly unlock the door.” He pretends to turn a key in the lock.  
“As a man breathes into his saxophone…” He holds his hands in “saxophone playing” position and breathes, groaning. “And through the walls we hear the city moan… mooooaaaaaghhn…” I have never heard such feral sounds coming from one man.  
“OUTSIDE IT’S AMERICA!” He turns around and shouts it to the heavens. “AMERICAAAA!  
“We run!” He speeds up and literally runs down to the B stage. “And we run! Into the arms…”   
His own arms are up in the air as he stops himself.  
“Of America,” he murmurs breathlessly, and the next song starts.  
Sure, it’s a pretty song. But I’m flustered from the last performance and spend most of my time sorting myself out during this one. The only time I am forced to take notice of what’s going on onstage is when Bono comes back here again. This time he’s even more anxious, and throws his jacket off.  
“Marieke, get me that black one,” he suggests, and I turn around, grateful for the opportunity to stop staring at the sweat soaking his shirt. When I turn around, though, he’s got the said shirt off, and I just freeze. My brain goes haywire.  
Bono is uncharacteristically snappy. “For the love of- just- never mind!” he growls, tugging the jacket away from me and pulling on a new shirt. He yanks the belt and hat off and runs his fingers through his mussed-up black hair. Without another word in my direction, he heads back to the stage. A few moments later, I watch Where The Streets Have No Name unfold in front of me.  
I find myself screaming my brains out once again for this song. Eric’s got a huge smile plastered to his face. I hug him suddenly, and he squeezes me hard, his eyes on the band. It ends much, much too soon.  
U2 finishes their main set with Pride (In The Name of Love). I don’t care too much for the song, so I wait for the encore time. Despite myself, I’ve never seen the encore soundchecks. I was always with Eric at the times the band practiced it. In a sense, it’s a good thing I haven’t seen it yet. I want to keep MacPhisto as a surprise for myself.  
The band leaves the stage and comes around to us. Once they’re in their dressing rooms, things get flurried. Edge, Adam, and Larry are in their own separate rooms this time, and I am stuck here with Bono. Truthfully, it’s not a bad thing to have happen… But then Bono starts taking his pants off and I have to turn my head away, my face scorched.  
Eric wordlessly hands Bono his clothes, and he buttons the red shirt up tight. I kind of wish he hadn’t done up every single button- and then I look down, see his shiny gold pants, and a shock runs through me.  
“This is why we don’t hire fans,” Bono mumbles, sitting down at the dresser. He has to move quickly, the images on the screens won’t hold the audience over for that long. A stylist comes up with a hair elastic and pulls Bono’s hair into a short ponytail as he applies his own makeup- red lipstick first, then the white face makeup. I’ve never noticed the slight eye shadow before now. He puts the makeup on with a surprisingly practiced hand. Already he doesn’t seem like himself.  
The stylist gives Bono a pair of red horns. He slides them onto his head, behind his ears, and sighs, adjusting them in the mirror. Then he calls in the British accent that stuns me, “Where are my shoes?” A stylist rushes up with the glittery gold boots, and he pushes his feet into them. Then the Devil is helped into his gold jacket and takes the stage himself.  
The rest of the band has changed too- Edge is particularly fancy in his purple uniform- but my eyes are glued to MacPhisto. When Desire begins, he comes onstage bowing and absorbing the crowd. Then as soon as those ruby lips part to begin the song, I lose it and make a lunge for the stage. Eric quickly wraps an arm around my waist, holding me in place as I struggle.  
“Desire…” Mr. MacPhisto sings ponderingly.  
“DESIRE!” I scream.  
“Calm the hell _down,_ Marieke,” Eric scolds. “It’s just Bono. You’ve met him before.”   
But no, it’s _not_ Bono… I stare happily at the stage, my mood unable to be crushed by Eric’s words, suppressing squeals when MacPhisto comes close.   
The band ends the song with a crash, and I’m relieved, not quite sure of how much more I could have taken of that. Then my hope for a less teasing time is crushed as MacPhisto starts to speak. I try to ignore my face heating up again, my breathing growing uneven.  
First of all, he _laughs._ The laugh destroys me. It’s too perfect. And then he has to go and add words to that- “Oh, jolly good! Off with the horns and on with the show.”   
I squeak as the aforementioned horns fly past my feet. I’m too scared to retrieve them.  
“Well, I see it’s raining again,” MacPhisto notes, his eyes turned to the clouds. Stupidly, I realize it’s raining just at that moment- must have been too focused on Bono/MacPhisto previously to notice. “So nice of you all to make us feel at home! Jolly good.” He pauses to let the crowd chew on that for a brief second, and then gestures to himself.  
“Well, look what you’ve done to me. You’ve made me very famous and I thank you. I know you like your pop stars to be exciting, so I bought these.” He displays his shoes to the world, and the audience whistles.  
“Round about this time of the night I often make a telephone call,” MacPhisto announces, obviously pleased with the crowd’s reaction. “Sometimes to the President of the United States, but not tonight. Tonight I’m going to see what kind of day it’s going to be tomorrow. You don’t mind hanging on for a second, now, do you?”   
Try not to faint, Marieke, remember to breathe…  
MacPhisto heads across the stage and takes up the telephone. “You’re so very kind. I do love Spanish people, they’re rather like Irish people,” he murmurs with a smile in his still obviously British accent. Where is this man from? Is he Irish or British? Who can really say? MacPhisto dials the number.  
“I hope I find a friendly voice,” MacPhisto muses, and then perks up- “Hello, do you speak English? I’m Irish and I’d appreciate it if you can speak a little slowly for me.”   
There’s that Irish thing again. MacPhisto’s only answer is a recorded message saying something unknown in Spanish. I imagine a girl on **the** other end, bored **with** her night’s work and preoccupied **with** another call, letting **the** machine run its notice. Just like me when this whole thing began…  
“Hello?” MacPhisto asks again, oblivious to all else. **The** recorded message continues, and he tries his pathetic voice- “I’m sorry, could you speak up? I’m sorry, I’m… a little hard- hard of hearing…” It now takes extreme willpower not to walk onstage and give MacPhisto **the** huge hug he deserves.  
 **The** recorded message has no answers. It continues to play, and then suddenly **the** band plunges into Ultraviolet. MacPhisto’s still got **the** phone- he clutches it in one hand and half sings, half murmurs, “Sometimes I feel like- I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like checking out…” It dawns on me that **the** phone is also a microphone.  
 **The** band hits a note on **the** downbeat of his words. **The** ascension of **the** notes is fast bringing about my demise. Already I can’t remember how to breathe…  
“I want to get it wrong, can’t always be strong…” He takes a deep breath. “And love, it won’t be long…”   
And he shouts wordlessly into **the** phone, on **the** verge of screaming, as Edge begins that guitar riff and Adam’s bass strikes in, **the** volume of **the** whole thing just blowing my brain out. Really, there’s no adequate way to describe how I feel now. MacPhisto hangs up **the** phone and starts to sing **the** rest.  
Ultraviolet is **the** ultimate bare bones of a love song. **The** energy is bringing **the** house down, and **the** Spanish crowd is very happy now. They’re cheering, and I’m cheering along **with** my fellow fanatics, only I can’t hear myself for **the** song. When MacPhisto reaches **the** B stage, I am set back on my feet.  
“Baby, baby, baby, liiiiiight… _myyyyy…. WAYYYYY!”_ he proclaims loudly, slumping over as **the** band crashes a lid down on **the** song. I take a breath, and in that breath a tinkling noise signals **the** beginning of **With** or Without You.   
From my spot backstage, I can both see and feel Adam’s bass as he thumps **the** notes out, and if New Year’s Day wasn’t enough I am reminded once again of why he is my favorite bassist. **The** Edge is immersed in his guitar playing, **the** notes being held past **the** point of fading away. Larry brings his drumsticks down gently, then stronger as **the** music slowly builds.  
And MacPhisto? He’s singing softly, his eyes trained on **the** camera that bobs slowly around in front of him. I know what he wants **with** it. He’s trying to confront it, to ask **the** thing what it’s done **with** his soul. I’m not sure now how I understand this, it just comes to me in a flash.  
“And you give yourself away… and you give yourself away… and you give, and you give, and you give your soul away!” _Soul?_ Oh, god, I was exactly right. MacPhisto’s voice trembles- “With or without you, **with** or without you, my love. I can’t live **with** or without you…”   
And now he can do nothing but howl “OOOOOOOH” as **the** sheer simplicity of **the** problem hits him. Can’t live **with** you, can’t live without you- I’ve never understood how one can walk that line. Clearly it’s no easy task for MacPhisto. He lifts his voice up into an unusual melodic tone, something I’ve never heard from him or Bono.   
When MacPhisto stops singing, he turns back around, unable to face **the** audience. I stare straight into his face before I can stop myself. **The** look in his eyes knocks me out. It’s not even a lust thing anymore- I am feeling his pain, staring into **the** eyes of **the** **Devil**. And then he raises **the** microphone back to his lips, and I am yanked away from his grip as he moves back to face **the** audience, needing more of their attention. I haven’t realized **the** music’s built up to a climax, Edge’s guitar ringing out some of **the** most beautiful, soul crushing notes I’ve ever heard, so it’s a huge surprise when MacPhisto cries out **the** next words-  
“Yeah, we’ll shine like stars in **the** summer night! We’ll shine like stars in **the** winter light. One heart, one hope, one love… **with** or without you.” **The** rain splashes his face turned to **the** heavens. “With or without… you…”   
Finally it’s all over. I come back to myself, shocked to realize I’m crying. Darn U2, always doing that to me… I reflect numbly on how MacPhisto had sung that verse during **the** other two performances I’ve seen of this song, but I guess **the** emotion hadn’t caught up to me then.  
Eric presses his hand against my back, presumably as a comfort. I let him keep it there- no words need to be said- but when Love Is Blindness begins I turn away from him and try to shut **the** sound out.   
My eyes fall on an object, laying on **the** floor- MacPhisto’s **devil** horns. Blindly I pick them up and dust them off. Eric’s back to watching **the** show- he’ll not notice me now. I start to place **the** horns on my head, but am suddenly overcome by **the** spooky feeling of wearing another person. These horns are part of MacPhisto, albeit a removable part, and I just can’t claim them for myself.  
Edge has gone into **the** solo and I clutch **the** horns tightly, hoping they will keep me from turning around. Well, **the** inevitable has to happen- I finally glance back and see MacPhisto holding a girl he’s plucked from **the** audience, clinging to her as tightly as he clung to me at **the** Rotterdam show. Dammit, why does s _he_ get to dance **with** **the** **Devil** this time? She barely even knows him!   
Her hands need restraining- she’s gotten them under his jacket. Why did Bono let her touch him and didn’t let me? Then I notice, as he spins her lightly, that his grip is only firm because he’s trying to prevent her from going any farther. Even so, **the** jealousy smolders in my belly,  
MacPhisto ends **the** song and gives **the** girl a kiss on her cheek before sending her back. Now why did he keep her for as long as **the** song lasts, whereas he sent me back when **the** solo ended? I try to ignore those little details… it really doesn’t matter, Marieke, she’s a random girl, she means nothing to neither you nor MacPhisto…  
Eric taps my shoulder, and I look at him as MacPhisto wearily begins Can’t Help Falling In Love. “What?”   
“Your face- you don’t look so good,” he tells me.  
I brush my hands along my face, wondering what he’s talking about. All I feel are **the** remnants of tears and my eyebrows squashed together, envy making its marks on my forehead.  
And now **the** show’s over. To my disappointment, MacPhisto has exited through **the** opposite side of **the** stage. But Adam, Larry, and Edge are returning to me and Eric, their faces flushed but triumphant.  
I congratulate each one as they walk past me- “It was a great show tonight!” Edge smiles and thanks me, Adam gives me a friendly nod, and Larry blinks at me, his gaze lingering a bit longer than necessary as he slides away to **the** dressing rooms.  
Eric and I get stopped by **the** crew many times. Apparently there aren’t any backstage passes for tonight, but it’s not like they need any more confusion. It’s time to take **the** stage set down, and it will be a lot more work.  
When we’re finally away from everyone else, Eric says, “You liked **the** show a lot, didn’t you?”   
“Yes,” I answer him. “They are my favorite band.” We stand in silence for a bit, lost in thought out in **the** stadium. **The** rain patters down onto **the** ground. Strange, but I feel drained, almost as if I was **the** one performing instead of U2.  
“Why are there no back-stage passes tonight?” I ask, trying to copy **the** words and praying I got it right.  
“The band’s taking a flight out to **the** studio to get some work done on **the** LP,” Eric murmurs, not looking at me.  
“Too bad. I want to tell Bono I know what job to get.”


	15. Pleased To Meet You

His eyes fastened on **the** blue sky, Bono takes a sip of his ginger ale. There weren’t many drinks to choose from on **the** flight from Dublin to Madrid, but this is better than nothing. At least it’s **the** band’s own plane, and Bono doesn’t have to pay. His head aches **with** **the** buzz of new music in his brain.  
 **The** studio sessions are always frustratingly busy; no one can get a moment’s rest back there. Last night it was all about mixing and recording- **the** album’s pretty close to being finished, but there are quite a few kinks needed to be worked out before these songs are claimed as a collection, a work of art. Bono has always been very proud of his music. He takes **the** writing and recording process very seriously- it should never be rushed. However, others don’t always see **the** serious aspect. They just want it finished…  
 _“Are you going to give up on that song yet?” Larry inquires sharply. Though he’s sitting back **with** his hands behind his head, **the** drummer is **the** farthest thing from relaxed._  
 _“What, Babble?” Bono wants to know. “You never know what good might come out of it.”_  
 _“But we’ve had that song ever since **the** beginning of these sessions, and we’ve gotten nowhere **with** it,” Edge comments. “I think it’s time to give up on that track.” _  
_“What about Zooropa, though?” Bono asks. “That song’s not exactly working, if you know what I mean. And there’s no talk of scrapping_ that.”  
 _“That’s because it’s not a bleeding_ soundcheck,” _Larry points out. He takes his hands from behind his head and moves them to rest on his lap. “We’ve got words for Zooropa, even if they’re not complete, but your babble song has no substance. Sure, it might work for some instrumental track, but we’re not doing_ that. _We’ve got no time to flesh it out!”_  
 _Adam stays remotely quiet, his eyes on **the** wall. He doesn’t like to partake in tense discussions, and Bono knows he is hoping no one will drag him into this one._  
 _“We have plenty of time, Larry,” Bono reminds him. “The album doesn’t have to be finished right this moment.”_  
 _“But who knows how long this is going to last?” Larry argues. “This feeling, this… spirit of Zoo TV. Before you know it, **the** tour’s going to be over, and we’ll be stuck **with** outdated material all because you couldn’t let go of a soundcheck!”He gets to his feet and restlessly paces a bit, working off steam._  
 _“I don’t know,” Bono mumbles. “I just… can’t let this one go.” He wraps his hand around **the** cool glass and drinks, **the** alcohol sliding down his throat like a dose of nasty medicine._  
 **With** a jolt, Bono comes back to reality **with** **the** knowledge that **the** cup he now holds is empty. He starts to say something, and then sighs, sliding it away on **the** tray. What **the** heck, it was just soda anyway…  
 **The** irritated man of last night is now asleep two rows back from Bono. Somehow Larry isn’t as cranky when he’s napping. Bono hides a smile. He wants to talk **with** someone, but Adam is spaced out looking out **the** window and Edge is absorbed in writing, leaning over **the** tray **with** a pencil in hand. Planes are easier to write on because **the** ride is smoother, and Edge’s hand moves quickly, unhindered by any bumps.  
“Got anything good there, **The** Edge?” Bono asks him.  
He doesn’t look up. “Shhh… I’ll lose it if you…” **The** sentence trails off.  
Understanding **the** importance of **the** writing process, Bono keeps uncharacteristically quiet.  
***  
 _Was a cold and wet December day when we touched **the** ground at JFK_  
 _Snow was melted on **the** ground, on BLS I heard **the** sound_  
 _Of an angel_  
“Angel of Harlem,” I whisper, my hot breath showing on **the** window. In a few moments more we touch **the** ground at Madrid, **the** next city U2 is going to play in.  
Airplanes are faster vehicles than buses- we’ve gotten to Madrid in no time at all. It occurs to me that maybe we should have taken **the** plane from Lisbon and used **the** buses to ride from Oviedo, as it’s not as far a distance. Who makes these plans about transportation, anyway? At least it’s not going to be my duty…  
Eric was intrigued when I told him my idea for a job. He hadn’t heard anything like it- “But then again, I’ve never heard anything like **the** Zoo TV tour; I’m pretty sure your job could work.” We’d gone to bed, and I awoke to **the** annoyance of having no clothes to speak of.  
Sure, there were clothes in my suitcase, but I only packed enough for three days, since that’s originally how long my trip was. I couldn’t stand **the** thought of wearing dirty clothes, and I promptly refused Eric’s- there does happen to be a difference between men and women’s bodies! **The** shirt and pants ensemble I put together this morning is clinging to me like a bad stench. I’m sure everyone can tell just from looking at me that I’m wearing unclean clothes. At least I had **the** sense to pack a toothbrush.  
 **The** Zoo TV video screens are arriving by truck, as there are no planes to transport them. Some of **the** smaller equipment is loaded into **the** planes we do have, though, and when we’re safely on **the** ground some crew members rush to **the** other planes to unload them. Eric, stretching and shaking his head, doesn’t bother to ask if I want to help before he is following his fellow crewmen over to **the** equipment. I’m glad that he knew me better than that.   
So I stand and stare at **the** sun. It’s bright and hurts my eyes. We’ll have to move from **the** airport to **the** hotel by a bus. I turn my face to **the** building nearby and wonder what’s going on inside. Are there any phone girls like me taking calls and wishing they were someplace else? Anyone whose ears pricked up **with** **the** mention of **the** name “U2” or “Zoo TV” and hoped they would get to witness **the** planes unloading, even if **the** band was not present? I can relate to those feelings. I hope **the** band will be back by **the** time we reach **the** hotel…  
I walk to **the** buses.  
***  
  
 **The** band doesn’t arrive back to **the** hotel until nighttime. They’ve already eaten dinner, and so are whisked away to separate locations while Eric and a group of his friends take me out to dine at a restaurant. They tease me for only having one glass of wine, but I know my limits and two more is really not always a good idea. Out of all **the** men, Jack is **the** quietest, brooding over his drink **with** dark eyes that see much but tell less.   
My room is apart from **the** others this time- Eric helped me purchase it, as **the** only money I had was Dutch money. I call my parents- how exciting my new life is to them now!- and spend **the** rest of **the** night in bed brushing up on both my English and Spanish. Finally **the** light must go out.  
And right this moment I am sitting downstairs in **the** hotel, eating free breakfast and scanning for a glimpse of **the** band returned. Eric sits next to me, chatting to someone, but he doesn’t know I’m not really at his side. I’m all **the** way across **the** room, standing at **the** door, or I’m in **the** middle of **the** room, determined not to get to close.  
Unlike **the** first morning, they don’t all arrive at once. **The** first member of U2 downstairs is Edge, drawn to **the** smell of bacon emanating from **the** buffet. I think he’s going to go to Morleigh once his plate is full, but instead chooses to sit alone at a table **with** his bodyguard. Morleigh is focused on someone else, anyway.  
I want to go over to **The** Edge to give him company, but Eric and his friends are still oblivious to my out of body experience. If I leave, it will startle them. So I throw myself back into **the** conversation by questioning what we are conversing about.  
Out of **the** corner of my eye I see Bono slip quietly into **the** private dining room, fill a plate, and join Edge at his table. A Spanish hotel staff member comes and fills their glasses **with** coffee. I nudge Eric and when he looks at me, ask “Can I go over there?”   
Eric looks over to **the** area of **the** room I mean and gives me a nod. “Go pitch your job idea to them. I’m sure it’s not too early in **the** morning for that.”   
I walk over carefully, my feet sliding gently across **the** floor.  
Edge and Bono spot me at **the** same time, but it’s Bono who calls first- “Hi, Marieke.” I smile and nod- “Good morning, Bono.” Edge pulls a chair up for me to sit in, at **the** same also wishing _me_ a good morning.  
I sit down and watch them eat for a while. “Where were you last night?”   
“Out,” Bono answers. “Enjoying our decadent lifestyle, I guess you could say. We ate dinner at a club and spent **the** rest of **the** time hanging there.”   
“Was it a party?” I ask.  
“Felt like one,” Edge mumbles.  
 **The** bodyguards stare at me without saying anything. They don’t want to talk, but I feel where their gaze is going. I cross my arms over my chest for a moment.   
“What’d you think of **the** show on Wednesday?” Bono asks me. ”Enjoy your seat backstage?”  
“Yeah, I liked it very much,” I reply to him. “Especially **the** encore. But **the** sound was loud!”   
Edge and Bono look at each other, smiling, while Edge tells me, “That’s **the** way it should be.”   
Bono is eager to talk to me. I can tell I’ve pleasantly surprised him by learning more English, though my accent is still quite prominent. “We’re doing **the** next show tomorrow- I suppose you wouldn’t mind watching from backstage there either?”   
“No, definitely not,” I answer. “And Bono, I know what job to have now.”   
Now all **the** attention is on me. Clearly interested, Bono asks, “What do you have in mind?”  
I take a deep breath, praying that he won’t shoot **the** idea down. _You can always get them to choose your job if this doesn’t work,_ I tell myself.  
“The encore? I like it a lot. I love MacPhisto. But **the** response isn’t so good. I mean, on **the** phone. I took phone calls at KLM Airlines; I didn’t hang up when you called. I know what will get a response and what will not. If you please let me, I think I could help you write phone calls. If you do it at all shows. I want to help…”   
They’re all watching me closely, like I’m a bug under a microscope. It’s getting uncomfortable very quickly- what, doesn’t _anyone_ like my idea? Maybe it was too “out there” for even Bono…  
“Do you have any ideas?” Bono asks. “I mean, I’ve got my own plans for **the** speeches. What do you have in mind?”   
Fearing my idea is heading downhill, I blurt, “I can help your ideas!”   
He drinks some of his coffee- not unpleasantly, unlike Lina- and we wait for what he has to say. If Edge has any thoughts of his own, he’s keeping them hidden- he’s unusually quiet today.  
“Hm. I think I like this… I can definitely see your logic…” Hope flares.  
“Tell you what. I’ll meet you for lunch and we can talk about thoughts on your job. Give me some ideas I haven’t come up **with**. How’s that sound?”  
He didn’t throw my idea away, but he doesn’t seem all too eager to use it either. Still, it’s better than nothing. I ask him, “What time will be **the** lunch?”   
“Let’s meet in **the** hotel at twelve-thirty,” Bono suggests. “I’ll take you out, my treat.”   
“Thank you, Bono,” I say, **the** words bringing light to my face. I start to get up.  
“You’re welcome!” He catches my attempts at leaving and reassures me, “You don’t have to go already.”  
So I spend **the** rest of breakfast **with** half of U2. Once they’re finished eating, I return to Eric. He’s fingering **the** pockets of his uniform restlessly.  
“Did they like **the** idea?”   
I shrug. “I don’t know. But I’m seeing Bono for lunch.”   
“Score,” Eric murmurs as we wander out of **the** dining room.  
***  
 **The** first half of **the** day is involved in shopping. Eric has generously left me some Spanish money, enough to buy a new outfit. I window-shop, only entering **the** stores **with** low prices. Eventually luck finds me and I leave a shop **with** a plain white T-shirt and a nice jean skirt, a casual outfit that shows off just enough. When I’m walking back to **the** hotel, a jewelry store catches my eye, and I scrape together enough of Eric’s remaining money to purchase a shiny bracelet band. Now I’m broke, but **the** look suits me.  
Back at **the** hotel, I change clothes in my room. **The** skirt settles a little too tightly on my hips, but I can’t be bothered to return it. I yank **the** tags off my clothes and throw away **the** receipts, hoping that maybe Bono was too preoccupied at breakfast to notice I’m wearing something different at lunch.  
I flip through a few more Spanish words before going down to **the** lobby. There’s a couch right here in **the** corner, and I sit down and look through brochures while waiting for my date.   
At twelve-forty-five according to **the** clock on **the** wall, he finally appears. I watch as he approaches me- his shirt a neutral color hiding beneath that jacket, his pants navy blue denim. Shame it wasn’t leather…  
“Hello, have you been waiting long?”   
I check **the** clock. “It is almost twenty minutes.”   
“I’m sorry,” Bono says, sighing, but I can tell it’s not that big a deal to him. “You weren’t very early, were you? Just be glad I didn’t arrive later.”   
“I wanted to be on time,” I tell him, standing up and throwing **the** brochure to **the** couch. “Where do we go?”   
“You just come **with** me…”   
He takes me to a cheap restaurant, a place where hopefully he won’t be recognized as Bono and I won’t complain about my price range. Not that I’m paying for my own entrée, though. It’s a treat from him, and I think of how lucky I am as **the** waitress flies off to seat us **with** a smile. A few glances are tossed our way- both men and women checking us out separately.  
Once we’re all alone, in a small booth in **the** back, and **the** waitress has fled **with** our orders, Bono leans forward and rests his head on his hands. “Marieke, I don’t know too much about you.”   
“I know a lot about you,” I answer, and a second later blush.  
He’s smiling. “How could I forget that? But you’re **the** mystery- what about yourself?”  
I can’t think of what he wants to hear, but I notice his attentive gaze and try to talk. At first my words are hesitant, as I’m scared of embarrassing myself. But soon they flow as easily as **the** drink does, and I’m telling him about becoming a U2 fan and how their music changed my life. It’s easy to forget that I’m speaking to one of **the** members.  
Bono listens **with** rapt, captured attention, and only interrupts once- “Your friend, Lina- she’s a fan too, am I right?”  
“Yes,” I say. “We met when I went to college… I bought **The** Unforgettable Fire that year…” A smile starts on my face at **the** memory of our meeting.  
 _S, T… U. I flip through **the** records filed under U, searching for **the** name of my new favorite band. There it is- U2, **The** Unforgettable Fire, **the** very last record in **the** shop. I reach to pull it out…_  
 _A warm hand lands on mine. I gasp and jerk my head up, finding myself locked in **the** green-eyed gaze of another woman. She clings to my hand, not letting me remove **the** record from its place. She’s obviously pissed._  
 _“What are you doing?” Her demand rings in my ears, leaving me bemused._  
 _“Buying **The** Unforgettable Fire, what’s it look like?” _  
_“No.” She shakes her head hard. “Listen. I’ve had my eyes set on that record since **the** day it came out. It’s only now that I’ve had time to get myself down here, and what do I find? Some girl trying to steal what’s rightfully mine.” _  
_I shake my head and tighten my grip on **the** album. This makes her tighten her grip on my hand. It hurts, but I don’t show it._  
 _“I’ve been stuck in school this whole week. Today is **the** only day I’ve been able to come here. I want this album too. It’s **the** last copy available. Please, let me buy it.” _  
_“Not on your life!” She squeezes my hand so hard that I wince. “Let go of me! That hurts.”_  
 _“Sorry, but no way. If I let go, you are going to scamper away **with** my precious album. I’m not letting that happen.” She purposefully digs her nails into my skin, and it hurts so badly that I drop **the** record and back off. She rubs her knuckles, letting **the** blood flow back into them, and strokes **the** side of **the** record._  
 _I watch **with** a sinking heart as **the** girl picks **The** Unforgettable Fire up and digs around in her pockets. Mentally I size her up… though she’s shorter than me, she obviously had weight as an advantage. Maybe I can come back next week… maybe they’ll have restocked… But my mind had been set on today. I don’t want to wait._  
 _“Shit. Where’s my money?” **The** woman empties her left pocket and comes up **with** some bills. She empties her right pocket and draws out… nothing. Her eyes close in on me._  
 _“Did you see any money on **the** floor?” I shake my head and, slipping **The** Unforgettable Fire under her arm, she goes to retrace her steps. I stay where I am and wait._  
 _She returns empty handed, all but for **the** album. “I don’t have nearly enough to buy **the** thing now,” she huffs._  
 _I shove my hand into my own pocket and finger **the** money I have in there. I take care to separate **the** bills and hold my other hand out for **the** record while engaged. “I guess I’ll have to buy it.” _  
_She hands it over, but glowers. Definitely not happy. I turn around and sort half **the** money into one hand, pretending to count it out. Then I spin to face her, my eyes wide. “Where’s my money got to?” _  
**_The_** _woman is confused. “I didn’t take it! How much do you have?”_  
 _I show her **the** half of my store. “I… I guess this is all I brought.” Both of us know it’s not enough to buy **the** whole thing._  
 _“What a coincidence.” She’s fallen for it._  
 _“Hey, I know what we should do. We should pay for **the** album together, and whoever likes it **the** most can keep it,” I say._  
 _She stares at me, and then shrugs. “Fair enough.”_  
 _As we walk to **the** cash register, I tell her, “I’m Marieke, by **the** way.” _  
_“I’m Lina.”_  
“She liked it better than me,” I finish. “But by then I had a new friend.”   
Bono is laughing. “That’s just mad! If we’d known there’d be fans fighting over our album we may not have put it out!”   
I raise my eyebrow.  
“Okay, we probably would have released it,” he admits. “Go on…?”   
I tell him more about myself, and he seems fascinated. By now our waitress has come back **with** our food, and she’s standing over us, ready to break into our conversation.  
“Gracias,” Bono tells her as she slides our plates onto **the** table. She giggles and flees- a flirty type.  
We eat for a moment.  
“Did you want to hear anything about me, Marieke?”  
“No, not about you. **The** mystery is MacPhisto. He’s why we’re here…”   
“All right.” Bono’s words come out from between forkfuls. “Your job. Let me get this straight- you wanted to write **the** speeches for me?”  
“No, not all **the** speech,” I correct him. “I want to write only **the** phone call. Are you always going to do that?”   
“Well, I’ve planned to perform as MacPhisto for **the** rest of **the** tour; I suppose that does entitle me to make a call every night.”   
I swallow a bite of food. “The show tomorrow- you have **the** call written?”  
“Working on it…”   
“Who are you going to call?” I lean in over **the** table. “Who is MacPhisto?”  
“Hmmm.” Bono’s breath escapes as he sits contemplating his lunch. “It’s a bit difficult to explain. **The** character was meant to replace my Mirrorball Man. **The** European audiences weren’t connecting very well **with** him **the** last time we came here…”  
“So who is **the** character?” I ask.  
He puts his fork down. “MacPhisto is supposed to be **the** **Devil** as a pop star who’s lost his glamour- you know, pretty much like **The** Fly past his prime but thinking he’s still got it.”   
Ah. Suddenly everything falls into place. I’m transported back to a stadium, one of **the** three shows I’ve been too, and hear **the** declaration in that bizarre British accent- “I know you like your pop stars to be exciting, so I bought these!”   
“The Fly will turn into that?” I ask.  
He shrugs. “That’s how I see it. Really it could be any rock star. Think of Elvis, for example- playing Vegas all those years when he’s old and fat. I’m trying to convey that feeling **with** MacPhisto.”   
I’ve heard of Elvis. He didn’t mean as much to me, living in **The** Netherlands, but when I couple my knowledge **with** my memories of MacPhisto, it comes clear.  
Bono takes my silence to mean I’m trying to think of how to express myself in English. He explains further- “See, MacPhisto should have retired years ago, but he can’t give **the** lifestyle up.”  
“He’s in pain,” I murmur, remembering MacPhisto’s heartbreaking expression on **the** B stage. “He can’t… live without them. He can’t live **with** them either.”  
Bono inclines his head. “What?”   
I try to bring back **the** moments, **the** succession of songs and each of **the** stories in them that MacPhisto tells. “I mean **the** fans. In Desire he’s happy and singing nice. Then in Ultraviolet he comes to himself. It’s a realization. In **With** or Without You he is sad and… sings about **the** pain.” A better word would be _lament,_ but I only know that one in Dutch. “In Love Is Blindness he gives up, but after **dancing** **with** **the** fan he knows he can have it all. He sings Can’t Help Falling In Love because…”  
I break off, startled by Bono’s intense stare.  
“It’s… right… for him…”   
“How did you know all that?!”   
I shrug and gaze at **the** table. Now that I’ve explained **the** character to Bono, I really feel for him. **The** words came out better than I expected. It’s simple- MacPhisto is trying to retain his former glory, but he can’t bear to hold on because it causes so much pain. And it breaks my heart too.  
Surprising Bono, I lean across **the** table and hug him. His arms are strong around me, his scent filling my nose. I blink, staring out behind his shoulder, and my vision blurs.  
Bono’s confused. “What is it, Marieke?”  
I shake my head, knowing he can feel that. How can I explain my sudden sympathy for **the** **Devil**? How can I start to tell him about my rush of emotion for MacPhisto, doomed to play on Zoo TV until **the** fans give up on him? How can I make him understand that I am love in **with** that man?  
And that I’m in love **with** him, too?  
“It’s MacPhisto…” I state, unable to explain it all.   
**The** bemusement shows in his voice. “He’s just a character, love.”   
I shake when he calls me love, and pull free of his arms. He lets go easily, and I’m disappointed that he won’t hold me longer.  
How can I begin to say that MacPhisto’s not a character, he’s a whole new person? Would Bono believe that?  
As I look into his eyes, I see **the** answer. No, he wouldn’t get it. And I can’t tell Bono I love him. I’d sound just like every other female U2 fan.  
“You’ve got quite **the** personality,” Bono murmurs before settling back into his lunch.

 


	16. Walk On The Wild Side

     “Ritz Hotel?”  
“Have you heard of it?”  
“No. Why?”  
“Why what?”  
“Why are you calling it?”  
“Because they wouldn’t let your favorite rock and roll band stay there… oh, was that surprising?”  
“No… no, you… just got me…”   
“The accent’s okay, isn’t it?”   
“It’s more than okay. Did they truly not let you stay there?”   
“Well… it may or may not have happened…”  
“What was wrong **with** it?”   
“Apparently you have to have **the** right clothes to get into **the** Ritz. Or at least that’s how MacPhisto will explain it. We can’t get in because there’s a problem **with** **the** dress code.”   
“I don’t believe that.”   
“The Spanish audience will understand it, and that’s what’s important. Now, anything you’d like to add?”  
“Let me see **the** writing.”   
It’s not bad being holed up in a dressing room behind **the** stage. I can ignore **the** fact that’s it’s stifling just to focus on being alone **with** Bono. **The** door’s closed, and we have peace together.  
“What if you get him?”  
“You mean Mr. Olivares?”   
“Yes, what if it’s not **the** machine?”   
“What do you think would happen? MacPhisto wants in **the** hotel. He wouldn’t give up.”   
“He might know it’s a joke. You must be… real. True.”   
“Do you mean convincing?”   
“Yes, that’s it.”   
A knock comes at **the** door. I lean back as Bono goes to answer it.  
“Bono? You’re due for another soundcheck soon. How’s **the** writing going?” It’s Paul, coupled **with** another man I haven’t seen before now.  
“We haven’t rehearsed **the** call,” Bono tells him. “That’s what you want?”  
“Well, actually you haven’t been around to practice **the** encore at all. I think it’s time for that. **The** band’s waiting.”   
Bono shakes his head. “We have most of tomorrow to practice **the** encore. Marieke and I have to finish writing.”   
“All right.” Paul steps forward. “May we come in?”   
“Sure,” Bono offers, moving farther inside to let **the** two men enter.  
 **The** man I don’t know comes to sit by me. “Hello, I don’t think we’ve met yet.”   
“Marieke Lang,” I introduce myself. He shakes my hand tightly.  
“Bill Flanagan.”   
“Okay, are you ready?” Bono asks us, **the** audience. We nod. He starts reading from **the** script in MacPhisto’s voice, and I hang on to every word.   
“No hablare espagnol,” he begins in a clearly British accent. A knowing smile spreads across my face. “Do you know who I am?”  
“Yes,” I mutter, and one corner of his mouth twitches up.  
“I know who you are. I know you all even better than you know yourselves. Let me introduce you to my band!” Bono gestures to his left, and reads, “This is **The** Edge; isn’t he an exciting pop star? And here’s Adam Clayton, he’s **the** cat that got **the** cream!” He glances to his right, a half-smile leaning on his face as if he’s forgotten he’s not really onstage.   
Now he throws his words behind him, addressing an imaginary drummer- “Larry Mullen Junior, giving Bruce Springsteen a run for his money!” A few laughs come from around me, obviously reveling in a joke I don’t get. Bono gives a laugh too, getting out of character for a moment.  
“And now let me tell you a story… about a hotel that wouldn’t let your favorite rock and roll band stay there…” He puts on his pathetic voice.   
Paul holds up a hand.  
“Yes?” Bono asks in his normal Irish accent.  
“What hotel are you talking about? We didn’t have any problems getting in to this one.”  
“It’s **the** Ritz I’m talking about, and it’s not important if it happened or not. Now…” Bono goes back to his MacPhisto voice. “The Ritz Hotel? Have you heard of it? Apparently they don’t like rock bands in **The** Ritz. They have a problem **with** **the** dress code…” He shrugs at us, as if wondering why that could possibly be.  
“Now, at this time of **the** night I usually make a phone call. Sometimes to **the** President of **the** United States, but not tonight. Tonight I’m calling that hotel, so you can all give out to them!” He lowers **the** paper and finishes in his normal voice, “That’s all so far.”   
I hold up my hand.  
“Marieke?”   
“It is good,” I tell him. “I like **the** call. However, I think you should stop more, so **the** fans can understand.”   
“That’s right,” Bono says. “I’ll make sure to pause more often, don’t worry. Anything else you’d like to add?”  
“Yes,” I say. “What if there is a long wait on **the** telephone? What will you say?”   
“I’ll improvise it. Anything’s gone over well at **the** last shows.”   
“Well…” I think. “Maybe you can sing a song, or talk to **the** crowd. You can’t forget them, or they’ll be lost! Is there anything happening in Madrid to talk about?”   
Bono’s eyes are drilled into me. “In Spain, **the** elections are coming up…”   
“MacPhisto will like that,” I say. “He’s **the** Devil- he loves dirty politicians!”   
This makes Bono laugh, and I feel proud of myself.  
Bill holds up a hand.  
“Yes?”   
“Just wanted to talk **with** Marieke for a moment…” I look at Bill, surprised at hearing my name called. Although he mispronounced it- jeez, how hard is it to say my name right?  
“You’re pretty good at this script-writing,” Bill tells me now. “Where are you from?”   
“Holland,” I reply, suddenly self-conscience at my clear accent. “I’m a fan. Where are you from?”   
“America,” he says **with** a grin, and I guess I should have realized it… his accent isn’t all too different from Eric’s.  
“What do you do?”  
Bill sighs happily. “Me, I’m a music journalist, and I’m going to be writing a book on Zoo TV.”  
A book…? I sort through **the** words in my mind. Now what was _book…_ ah, there we go. Hm. It’s a funny thing to imagine- a book about Zoo TV, like we’re making history and people will want to read about it for years to come.  
“Will I be in **the** book?” I ask, a little mischievously.  
“If you want to be!”  
And that sounds all right **with** me.  
Paul stands up, and addresses Bono as he bends over and brushes himself off. “I’ll just leave **the** two of you alone-“   
“Three,” Bill corrects.  
“… but don’t forget that you have soundcheck in ten minutes.” He goes to **the** door. “Goodbye, guys.”   
“Bye, Paul,” Bono murmurs, and Bill and I add our words of parting.  
“Now, Marieke, let’s get this speech finished…”   
***  
22nd of May. I’m standing backstage **with** Eric, wearing **the** clothes of **the** Zoo TV crew- but fitted to my feminine body. We have both our gazes trained on **the** stage as Bono jerks, stumbles, turns around, and express himself by kicking. So far he’s really on fire tonight.  
Eric and I barely talk this time. I’m starting to suspect he might be a fan just like me. Our reactions to **the** songs are just **the** same, and our bodies move in unison **with** each other as U2 plays. I reflect on how I like Eric better when he’s not talking, and jam out.  
This time **the** quick change is easier for me. When Bono comes and takes his jacket off, I hand him his other one without even looking downward. When he asks for **the** hat and **the** belt, I focus on his hands and nowhere else as I give them up.  
 **The** next change is more interesting. I try to resist **the** temptation, but fail when his arm presses against mine for a second- and suddenly I am staring at his sweaty chest, my fingers rigid from trying not to touch. Bono treats me impatiently, like last time, and jerks **the** new shirt away.  
A second later, any bruised feelings are mended when Bono sings, “I want to run!”   
Finally **the** main set has ended, and I take Eric back into **the** dressing room **with** me. If I’m going to help Bono **with** anything in there, I’m going to need a guy to back me up. Bono takes his shirt off first, and it’s not quite as much a distraction… but then when I clutch up **the** red shirt, **the** breath just knocks out of me. It comes then- I am helping to dress MacPhisto. Ignoring Eric’s reaching hands, I throw **the** shirt to Bono and let Eric do **the** rest.  
When I dare to look again, Bono is MacPhisto. He’s applying **the** makeup **with** an air that only a cultured British (or maybe Irish) **devil** can have. I allow myself to gawk for a moment, and then realize that all he needs now is **the** horns.  
Those horns are shoved into my hand- wait… since when was I Bono’s stylist?- and I get to do **the** honors of crowning MacPhisto. Besides our first dance onstage, this is **the** closest I’ve been to him. What will he think of me? Will I behave around him?  
My hands slip gently, carefully, down **the** side of MacPhisto’s head, and he gives a little sigh, something that I would have died at **the** sound at, but I’m too nervous. I muster up **the** courage to smile at **the** Devil’s reflection and inquire, in a slightly high pitched voice, “Are you ready, Mr. MacPhisto?”   
“Yes, I’m fine,” he tells me in his British accent. “Thank you, love.” Then he gets up and squeezes his feet into **the** platform boots. He faces me, weaving alone by **the** mirror, and winks. Now my brain has gone out like a light… but Eric is shaking me, pulling me back towards **the** stage so we can watch **the** encores.  
MacPhisto is singing gleefully- “DESIIIIIIIIIIRE!!” He dances around **the** stage, clearly enjoying all **the** love that **the** fans are pouring out to him. Suddenly he slows, strolling about **with** wide eyes as **the** rest of **the** band vamps for a bit.  
“Dollars…” he sings. “She’s my protection. Yeah, she’s **the** promise… in **the** year of election…”   
He stares into **the** audience and seemingly directs his next words to one woman. “Oh sister, I can’t let you go… I’m like a preacher stealing hearts at a traveling show.” He speaks **the** lines instead of singing, and I can hear his dear British accent come out on that. Girls in **the** audience scream.  
“For love or money!” He reaches inside his jacket and begins tossing dollar bills around **the** stage, into **the** audience- “For love or money! More money! Money…”   
“And **the** fever, getting higher,” I whisper.  
 **The** audience sings. “DESIIIIIIIIIRE!”   
“Desire!” MacPhisto flings himself about onstage. “Desire!”   
“Desiiiiiiiire,” Edge sings calmly.  
 _Okay, that’s enough,_ I think. I’m eager to see how our creation, **the** speech and phone call I wrote **with** Bono, will work out for MacPhisto. Will he do justice to our words?  
But **the** song ends **with** MacPhisto still singing.  
“Moon River, wider than a mile! I’m crossing you in style, someday! Oh, you dream maker! You heart breaker! Wherever you’re going, I’m going your way!”   
I smile and giggle, recognizing **the** song as one he had sung at **the** Lisbon show, and he asks **the** crowd, “That’s lovely, isn’t it?”   
**The** audience erupts **with** their approval. When they’re done MacPhisto warns them- “ _No hablare espagnol._ Do you know who I am?”   
“WHOOOOOOOOOOO!” is **the** response, along **with** a few shouts of “Bono!” I guess they still haven’t caught on to **the** new persona thing.  
“Because I know you probably even better than you know yourself,” **the** swanky **devil** continues. “Let me introduce you to _my_ band. Where is Edge- there he is. Don’t you think he’s an exciting pop star?” **The** crowd politely cheers in assent. Edge looks pleased.  
“Larry Mullen Jr., giving Bruce Springsteen a run for his money I’d say!” Apparently **the** Spanish don’t get **the** joke any more than I do. “Adam Clayton, there’s **the** cat that got **the** cream!”   
And now he cries in a rougher voice- “Look what you’ve done to me!” Amusingly enough, I can now hear a few members of **the** audience taking up a chant- “Bo-no! Bo-no! Bo-no!” They sing it over MacPhisto’s next, harsh sounding words- “You’ve made me very famous- _and I thank you!”_  
Finally **the** fans stop their chant as MacPhisto pulls out another catchphrase- “I know you like your pop stars to be exciting, so I bought these!” I fidget a bit, impatient. He’s just building up to **the** real speech. I want to see how well Bono’s and my words fare for this man.  
It comes soon enough. “Shall I tell you a story? About a hotel in this very city… who wouldn’t let your favorite rock and roll band stay there.” I detect a note of sadness in his last words.  
“Well… they don’t like rock and rolls bands in **The** Ritz, apparently,” he sighs, and gazes despondently out into **the** audience. A few people shout “No!” Bono was right- **the** story is going over well.  
MacPhisto picks it up- “They have a problem **with** **the** dress code. Now round about this time I often make a phone call from **the** stage. Sometimes to **the** President of **the** United States. But not tonight; I’m going to call that hotel… so you can all give out to them!” A tentative smile creeps to his face as he moves backstage to **the** phone, telling **the** audience offhandedly, “I’m very tired, just hold on two seconds.”   
MacPhisto dials, leaning against **the** phone’s stand. “I must say, you speak English awfully well,” he compliments them. “I’m Irish myself of course.” There he goes _again_ **with** **the** Irish thing. Is Bono forgetting that he’s in character? **The** other end of **the** phone rings.  
“Ta da ta da…” MacPhisto sings.  
 _Ring._  
“Ta daaa, ta da…”   
_Ring._  
“La da da, da daaa…”   
A voice on **the** other ends picks up and starts speaking Spanish. It’s going too fast for me to understand.   
“Hello, is that **the** Ritz Hotel, Madrid?” MacPhisto inquires, his face concentrated.  
 **The** unknown speaker replies **with** what must be a “Yes.”   
“I- I’d like to speak to Mr. Olivares, please,” MacPhisto tells him. **The** voice sounds a tad bit confused- “Mr. Olivares?”   
MacPhisto tries touching his good side- “Thank you very much.” **The** voice, however, still isn’t sure- “Mr. Olivares?”   
“Yes…”   
“You will have to hold **the** line,” he says in English, and MacPhisto calls, “Thank you very much,” once more as waiting music fills **the** stadium.  
“They’re playing my tune!” MacPhisto cries, pure joy written across his face. A lady’s voice speaks in Spanish, obviously a recorded message. MacPhisto sings along- “Ta da daaaaaaaa! Ta da da, da da da daaaaaaaa… Love that one!” **The** recorded message speaks again, only in English, just like **the** KLM messages.  
“Please hold. Your call will be dealt **with** in a few moments.” This greatly amuses MacPhisto. “It’s no problem at all, we’ve got all night, haven’t we?” **The** crowd cheers in delight as **the** music continues.  
“Off **with** **the** horns, on **with** **the** show, eh?” MacPhisto asks, and giggles as he tosses them backstage. I’m too focused on **the** stage to pick them up this time.  
“La da da daaaa…” **The** music plays.  
“La de da, da de da da…” Music.  
“Spanish eyes are waiting for me…” he throws in. I can see Edge and Adam smirk at each other onstage.  
”Could you please hold; your call will be dealt **with** in a few moments. Thank you…”  
“Oh, I don’t mind waiting at all!” MacPhisto cries, reassuring **the** disembodied voice on **the** other end. **The** music continues…  
“La da daaaa!”   
Music.  
“La da, da daaa…”   
Music.  
“Da… da… da…da… da… da da daaaaa!” All through this, **the** waiting music continues. This is going on for far too long- good thing Bono and I have discussed what to do if this happens.   
**The** woman’s voice speaks **the** same message in Spanish, and MacPhisto calls out, “How’s **the** elections going then?” He gives **the** audience a big smile. A few more cheerful notes of **the** waiting music punctuate his speech as he calls, “Vota MacPhisto, I’d say!”   
“Would you please hold; your call will be dealt **with** in a few minutes.”   
“La da daaaa…” he sings in response to that. “Poor old Franko, you’ll miss him though won’t you?”  
 **The** music swells.  
“All that pulling out of toenails, it’s just not **the** same without him,” he concludes, and a man’s voice picks up. “Hello?”   
“Hello, Mr. Olivares?”   
“Yes,” **the** other man answers.  
“I just- I have to- I have a question to ask about- I’d like to stay in your hotel…” MacPhisto’s obviously been caught off-guard.  
“Yes?”   
“…but I believe there’s a problem **with** **the** dress code,” he finishes. “I’d just like to say I’ve got **the** right suit now.”   
“Yes…”   
“And if I’m wearing **the** right suit, would you let me stay in your hotel?” MacPhisto’s beautiful blue eyes are intent, his voice curious.  
“But- you will need tie and jacket!” Mr. Olivares exclaims.  
“I beg your pardon?” MacPhisto says, unfazed.  
“You will need- ie and- et-“ **The** line is breaking up.  
MacPhisto takes a moment to decipher that. “Ah, I will need a tie and a jacket? But I have on a very special jacket, and I have some horns. Would that be a problem?”  
“Oh, not a problem at all,” Mr. Olivares explains.  
“So, no problem for Mr. MacPhisto?” he adds, and I suppress my squeals of delight. _I_ know what’s coming next, and no one else does.  
“Of course not, no problem,” he repeats.  
 **The** Devil’s eyes are calculating. “Well thank you very much, you’ll have MacPhisto but you won’t have **the** group of U2. That’s fine, thank you!” And as **the** crowd cheers, **the** band begins Ultraviolet.  
I laugh.  
***  
It takes a few songs, but by now **the** entire band is backstage and changing back into their normal clothes- well, if normal is **the** word for it. Edge’s pants sparkle **with** rhinestones- _I should click a picture for Lina,_ I think absently- and Larry’s got on a tank top. Eric is electric and won’t stop talking, which causes a few smiles from **the** band. I guess I can say I’m no better- I’m hopping around anxiously, alternating between congratulating every band member in sight and asking when **the** one out of sight will return. Edge is **the** only one who cares to be patient **with** me, and says, “He’ll be out when he’s ready.” I can only stand around and wonder who tricked me into leaving Bono’s dressing room.  
Finally **the** door bursts open, and Bono flings himself into **the** room. “Hey!” he shouts, looking absolutely pleased **with** himself. “Who’s up for some celebration? Marieke… you’re a genius. That script was great!” He beams.  
“Thanks,” I tell him, and he crosses **the** room to give me a hug. I gasp, feeling **the** sweat through **the** thin cloth of his sleeveless shirt.  
Bono moves away from me and starts talking at an extremely fast pace, so fast that I decide to stop listening. My Dutch-minded brain can’t handle it. Bono walks around **the** room, engaging anyone who’ll listen in conversation. He’s practically bouncing off walls, making Eric’s excited behavior pale in comparison.  
“Bono,” I finally break in. “Is there a party tonight?”  
He turns to look at me, lips curled back from white teeth. “Why, yes, if you can call it that,” he muses.  
“You said in Portugal I could come to a party sometime,” I remind him.  
“Well…” His eyes flicker to Edge, who gazes back unashamedly. “Actually I believe that was Edge’s doing…”   
“Edge!” I spring on him. “Can I come to **the** party?”   
Obviously he’s wondering how he fell into this one. “Yeah… um, sure, we’ll just be hitting a club though, nothing big…”  
“Nothing…? Edge, knowing us it will _get_ big!” Bono turns around, unable to stand still for a moment.  
“Isn’t there an album you should be working on?” Eric asks them, shooting a glance at me.  
Bono sighs. “Ah, ya got us…”   
“I’m not sure they’ll believe our excuse,” Adam mumbles.  
“Right- haven’t you ever heard **the** saying, Eric, that all work and no play makes a rockstar dull?” Bono’s smile is wide. “No, really, we’re just not up for flying out tonight.”   
“It's a bit of a waste of creative time,” Larry murmurs, so low that only a few people hear. I’m one of them..  
Bono comes and puts his arm around me. “Come on, Marieke. We’ll give you a party you can’t forget.”   
And so we go to **the** overground.  
                                       ***  
 **The** place U2 takes me is noisy and overcrowded **with** people. Lights flash on **the** inside, and I scan warily for a disco ball. If there is one I’m leaving. A ton of people are out on **the** dance floor, grooving it up to a DJ’s sound, and a few women throw themselves over **the** men at **the** bar- some of whom don’t look too happy about it.   
“Why?” I ask Bono, **the** nearest band member to me.  
“Doesn’t look our type, does it?” he answers in **the** form of a question. “I’m sorry, you must not know us.”   
We head in, me walking cautiously, everyone else looking relaxed. I’ve never been to any clubs, only low key bars. I’ve always been too afraid of what could happen.  
Our entourage consists of Bono, **The** Edge, Larry, Adam, their bodyguards, Eric, and a few tag-along’s- Bill and two crewmen. I don’t bother to ask their names. There’s a lot of smoke drifting around **the** club, and I glance **with** raised eyebrows at **the** “No Smoking” sign.  
“Will you stay **with** me?” I shout over **the** music for Eric’s ears.  
“Yes,” he yells back. **The** bass in **the** music throbs in my chest, and I press his hand.  
 **The** band members have gotten lost among **the** swaying bodies. I wonder if they’re **dancing** , and shudder at **the** thought of it. Something makes me doubt that any of U2’s members can dance well.  
Eric and I sit down at **the** bar, taking up **the** empty seats of a couple who’ve gone to dance just after meeting for **the** first time. **The** bartender swings around, and Eric orders for himself in Spanish. I tell Eric my order, and when he repeats **the** request to **the** bartender **the** latter smirks at me. I don’t need to speak Spanish to know what he inquires- “Nothing stronger?”   
“No,” I growl, and let him serve us. **The** ice in our drinks clinks against **the** glass as he sets them down in front of us. Eric asks me, “Do you want a sip of mine?”   
“No, thank you,” I answer, and swivel my chair around so I can face **the** dance floor. To my relief, I spy one of **the** band members, and he’s not **dancing**. No, Bono is coming over to **the** bar, making his way through sweaty bodies to reach us. **The** lights can’t touch his shades.  
I sip my drink and watch as **the** said light reflects off its watery surface. Bono sits down in **the** stool next to me. He orders his drink in a low voice, and then asks me, “How did you enjoy **the** show this night?”  
“Good,” I say, swallowing my drink. “The phone call worked great.”   
“Talk about that!” He grins. “That was **the** funnest call I’ve made on this entire tour. And it’s all because of you.”   
“Oh, no it’s not,” I blurt, feeling embarrassed. “MacPhisto added a lot more.”   
He turns his head up. “That’s true… I did add some more as I went along, but you can’t blame me. That was so entertaining… Marieke, you have no idea what it’s like to be onstage.” I imagine his eyes glowing.  
“Something you did say I don’t understand, though.”   
“Oh?” He drinks. “What was it, love?”  
He won’t notice my blush in **the** flashing lights. “Why do you say you are Irish? MacPhisto is British. Am I right?”  
Eric steals a glance towards me. I notice for **the** first time **the** shades his red hair is turning in **the** multicolored lighting. It makes me want to laugh.  
“Hmmmm…” Bono sets his drink down on **the** counter and clasps his hands together. “Have you ever heard of Michael MacLiammoir?”   
I rack my brains. “Um… no.”   
He smiles and leans back, ready to spill all his knowledge on this man. “He was this English bloke, born **with** a very British sounding name, and eventually he just immersed himself in **the** Irish culture and changed his name to **the** Gaelic. Now, he wasn’t on my mind when I started **the** speeches, but MacPhisto may be a bit like that man.”   
       Something stirs in me, and I remember MacPhisto’s warning before he started **the** speech tonight- “No hablare espagnol,” in his very British accent. I think it’s **the** opposite of **the** man Bono’s described- an Irish man turned British, or rather Bono in character.  
       “It’s very…” I start to take a sip of my drink, but realize **the** glass is already drained. Draping myself over **the** counter, I finish, “Obvious.”   
       Bono drinks from his non-empty glass before answering me, and in that moment **the** bartender whirls back to us. “Quieres mas?”   
       More? “No,” I tell him in Spanish, as **the** current song blasting shifts into another one- a slower ballad, perfect for the couples lining up to dance.  
       “Oh,” Bono starts, looking up from his drink perplexedly. “I _love_ this song.”   
       Meanwhile, Eric is warding off **the** bartender on his side, who intent on serving him. “I don’t want a refill… thank you…”   
       Bono stands up suddenly and fixes his gaze onto me. “Like to dance, Marieke?”   
       I shake my head.  
       “Come on, you can’t be saying you’re no good at it.”   
       “Maybe you’re no good” I shout as a response.  
       He raises his eyebrows and takes a hold of my unwilling hands. I give him a stony look, but he pulls me all too easily off **the** stool.  
       “I can’t dance, no, but **with** you it wouldn’t look half bad.” Then we enter **the** crush of people on **the** floor.   
       “Seducer,” I mutter in Dutch, but he doesn’t listen, and we start to dance. Now that I’m on my feet, my reluctance seems to evaporate. We spin together, getting farther and farther away from **the** bar. Bono sings along **with** **the** words and grins openly when I stare at him.

       “I, I was standing, you were there, two worlds collided, and they could never tear us apart…”  
       His arms are strong around my body. I don’t care that his “dancing” isn’t quite right- it’s worth it for him to hold me. I lean into his muscular body, feeling some of his sweat drip onto me. I’m sweating a bit too- it’s really very crowded in here.  
       “You’re very happy!” I accuse Bono, raising my voice above **the** music.  
     His grin is something more like a smirk now. “Of course! I’ve got a dance partner, a party, a drink and a great song- and no one knows who I am!” He pulls me away from **the** throng of people. “What more could I need?”   
_Me._  
       I don’t say anything.  
       When that number’s over, Bono lets me go and I stagger back to **the** bar, pushing my way through gyrating bodies. Eric is joking and laughing **with** **the** bartender in a mix of Spanish and English, and his glass is half-full. Looks like someone got that refill… and maybe more…  
       “Great dance!” He thumbs me up.  
“Want to cut in?” Bono breaks free of **the** dancers at last and plops back down at **the** bar, his hands settling on my shoulders in an offering for Eric. Eric winks **with** a naughty smile, and I wonder what Bono is doing behind my back.  
So we twist together a bit, and Eric’s not a bad partner. Then I go roaming for new men. It’s not bad business, really- most of **the** men I ask to dance **with** me are eager at **the** prospect of a date. But I won’t let them take me home. After one dance I find someone else.  
I don’t dance **with** any other U2 member tonight. Although I do chat it up **with** Edge- he’s gotten a bit tipsy. I suppose we all are, some more than others. I’m not drunk in **the** least. So glad I only took one drink…  
We finally exit **the** place, all laughing and talking noisily. Eric’s arm comes casually around my shoulders, and I let him leave it there as he jabbers away. **The** entourage slides around **the** corner and travels up an alley, back to **the** black limo that’s taken us to this club.  
Yes, we are _very_ inconspicuous.


	17. All That Shines

       Bono lifts his heavy lids and takes one look at **the** room before groaning and letting his eyes close again.  
 _Is there anyone next to me?_  
 **The** bed is empty, all but for Bono’s warm body.  
 _Thank God…_  
       How late was he up last night- and how many drinks had he had? It’s pretty hard to remember everything. One thing’s for certain- **the** phone call that Marieke helped write was perfect. Bono remembers **the** crowd loving every second of it. He craves that feeling, **the** applause and **the** cheering. Audiences have strength in numbers.  
 _I live to serve them._  
       Then there was **the** club. He knows he went out to party instead of out to **the** studio for **the** album. And Marieke was there… and they danced… and she was quite a good dancer at that…  
Bono thinks that maybe she should sit in general admission sometime again. She is a fan after all… and maybe he could pull her up again.  
       Anyway, everything after **the** club is a blur, all up to falling asleep at **the** hotel and waking up feeling sick. Bono’s almost afraid to fully open his eyes- it might make **the** pounding in his head worse.  
 _Why didn’t we go out to **the** studio?_  
       He isn’t sure. The LP needs work, and instead of doing that work he had taken his friends out to party. What **the** hell? It’s about time to stop **the** crazy fun and focus on something serious.  
       But he doesn’t want to give it up. They’ve spent what, 13 years as a band, 6 years as a mega-group, and only two years as the stereotypical rockers? That’s not nearly enough time to fit in what all they’ve missed. However, if U2 continues to follow this direction, **the** joke will lose its flavor, to **the** point where it’s not even a joke anymore.   
_Okay, you can have… 7 more years of decadence, but as soon as **the** new century hits **the** party’s over. _ Bono grins wryly. He’s not even sure he wants to think that far ahead.  
His eyes crack open, revealing a darkened hotel room **with** **the** blinds drawn. Bono lies in bed, blinking until his vision has properly adjusted. Then he slowly drags himself into a sitting position.  
 _Ugh. What were those drinks spiked **with**?_  
Because there’s no way on Earth he could have drunk that much in one night… no, Bono knows better than _that…_  
Thirst registers. Despite **the** quantity of drink consumed last night, Bono is parched. And, unsurprisingly, given **the** said amount of drink, really needs to pee.  
So he gets up reluctantly and moves toward **the** bathroom connected to his suite. As he flips **the** light on and groans, **the** name hits him forcefully.  
 _Marieke._  
He ever so slowly removes his hand from his face, only letting one ray of light in at a time until he’s adjusted to it. His head throbs.  
 _Dammit…_  
He doesn’t want to look in **the** mirror.  
Eventually he must, though, while washing his hands. His hair’s a mess, tangled lumps or black strewn around his face. His eyes are reddened and can’t seem to focus correctly.  
If Marieke could see this, she’d understand why Bono had seemed so tired at breakfast **the** two times she’d eaten **with** him.  
And it flashes again in Bono’s mind.  
 _Marieke._  
What is it about that girl? She’s just a fan, isn’t she? A very charismatic fan, but a fan nonetheless. **The** type Bono flirts **with** every night onstage, and sometimes off. She’s just one of them.  
She did do a good job writing **the** phone call, though. And she has a unique view of looking at **the** world.   
_Maybe I should let her come to one of **the** studio sessions._  
Maybe. Let’s consider this further, after breakfast.  
***   
“I am a writer of **the** Devil’s speeches,” I tell Lina **with** a giggle, twisting **the** phone cord around my finger.  
“Come again?”   
“Well…” I relax and hang my head off **the** end of **the** bed, viewing my room upside down. “I was hired to help Bono write **the** phone calls from **the** stage every night. You know, for MacPhisto…?”  
“Is that a job?” Lina asks, uncertainty peeking through her voice.  
I shrug. “So far it’s working. I haven’t gotten paid for it, but maybe I will after I write a few more. Bono liked what I had last night, though.”   
“Mmm…” Lina wants to move on. “So what’s it like hanging **with** your favorite band?”   
_“Our_ favorite band,” I correct her. “It’s very fun. I like all **the** guys so far. I’ve only really spent time **with** Bono, though.”   
“No Edge?” Lina pouts. “Come on, he _must_ know I’m his biggest fan by now. No more favors done for me? Not even another phone call?”   
“I’ll see what I can do,” I reassure Lina, laughing.   
“You’d act **the** same way about Bono if we switched places,” Lina mutters.   
I don’t respond to that. She is absolutely correct. Though I’m not sure I’d like him half as much if we hadn’t spent so much time together…  
“You can’t cheat on Herman for Edge, though. I’m still a free woman.”   
“Oh…!” Lina exclaims, lost for words. “It’s not like we’re engaged or anything…”  
 _Thank God you’re not,_ I think.   
“How are things back in Rotterdam, anyway?”   
She doesn’t respond for a moment, and then answers in a flat voice, “It’s all good. I went on a few dates and hung out **with** some friends. Everything’s just fine.”   
“Enjoying my bed?” I ask, and then wish I hadn’t. It’s always hard to see what bait Lina will take about **the** bed this time…  
She falls for **the** more likely and preferred one. “Technically, you know, it’s _my_ bed.”  
“But you said I could sleep in it for as long as I want. So now it’s _mine.”_  
“Marieke, have you slept on that couch? You can’t blame me. I get so sore in **the** morning.”   
“Of course I’ve slept there… for, oh, two years in fact…”   
“There. You see my point. I suppose I’m never going to get you to go back to it.”  
“Come on, Lina. I’ll only sleep on that thing if you keep sleeping **with** Herman in _my_ bed.”   
She sighs. “I miss you, Marieke.”   
     “I miss you too, Lina…”   
“Keep in touch.” She disconnects **the** line.  
I hop out of bed and take up my hairbrush. A knock on **the** door startles me at **the** first stroke.  
“Coming,” I call in Dutch, forgetting myself, and open **the** door, **the** brush still in my hand.  
       Eric stands **with** a box in his arms. “Delivery for Miss Marieke.”   
I let him come in and set **the** box on my floor. “Oof, that was heavy. How are you this morning?”   
“Fine,” I say, sitting down next to **the** box. I don’t bother to tell him that he thought my inability to lift heavy objects was bad.“Where is this from?”   
“Apparently **the** hotel in Oviedo sent it here,” Eric responds. “I don’t know what’s in it.”   
“It was sent from Rotterdam,” I murmur, reading **the** sticker on top. “It’s from Lina.”  
We meet each other’s eyes, and he asks, “Do you want me to leave?”  
“Yes, please. Goodbye, Eric,” I call as he shuts **the** door behind him.  
I take **the** box up in my arms and sit down on **the** bed. There are no tools in here to open a closed cardboard box **with** , so I use my fingernails. Finally it’s open, and my nails are noticeably shorter than they were when I woke up.  
Lina has packed all my clothes and a few more necessities she thought I’d need. I notice that she hasn’t packed anything for entertainment, trusting that I would have a lot of fun on my own. How right she was!  
I start to pull out some navy blue jeans, but stop when I catch sight of something purple beneath them. Mystified, I reach down into **the** box to pull out **the** purple item- and my fingers slide along satin. Wait…  
I remove **the** mystery from its container. It’s a smooth, floor length purple dress, one I liked **the** look at in **the** shop but felt hideous when I wore it at home. Lina has stuck a Post-It to its surface- _In case you meet anyone._ I imagine her winking.  
 **The** dress is a joke, but suddenly it’s all I can think about. My figure wrapped in purple satin, surprising everyone in **the** room but most of all astonishing Bono… He wouldn’t be able to keep his eyes off me.  
I dress for breakfast **with** care.  
***   
Eggs. It’s all Bono can think about at **the** moment. Eggs and water, and something without much flavor. If he tries hard enough, he can still taste **the** alcohol in his mouth, and that is not a pleasant thought.  
After two helpings of awful hotel-made scrambled eggs and a glass of cold ice water, Bono feels somewhat like himself. **The** rest of **the** band is down here, none of them looking any worse for **the** wear. Bono suspects that maybe he did drink more than he thought last night.  
And then she enters **the** room, and it’s heart-stopping.  
I walk nervously in, knowing that all eyes are on me. **The** men lose their trains of thought and **the** women try to mask their frowns. I always knew I had a nice body, but this is a bit much. No wonder I never wore this dress again.  
It appears that someone found an enormous roll of shiny purple ribbon and wrapped it very tightly around Marieke’s body, without taking care to loop **the** fabric over her pale creamy shoulders. She holds herself **with** confidence, and it’s all Bono can think about, all he can see. He’s afraid to blink, for fear that she might evaporate.  
“Someone’s star-struck,” Adam stage-whispers.  
“Shut up.” Bono frowns and blinks. Marieke doesn’t go away.  
Oh God, he’s looking at me. At this very moment Bono is watching me **with** unwavering blue eyes. He looks like he just woke up, but even at his worst he’s so beautiful. My fingers twitch from wanting to get my hands on his hair and straighten it out. Seriously, it should be illegal all over **the** world for someone to be as sexy as he is now… I blink, startled, and manage to drag myself **the** rest of **the** way to his table.  
Marieke takes a seat next to Bono, and he gives **the** girl a nod and asks, “How was your night?” in a voice that betrays no emotion. Followed closely by- “What era is this? An evening dress at breakfast?”   
“I wanted to wear it,” I let him know. My voice doesn’t shake to give me away. I’m pleased. “It was a good night.”   
“Surely better than mine. You only had one drink at **the** club,” Bono accuses Marieke. He suddenly feels a bit worried- if she was **the** only clear-headed person around, maybe she’ll know how many drinks he had. That is not a number he feels like hearing.  
“I slept well,” I answer. Finally **the** word’s come out right- well instead of good. “I didn’t need any more to drink.”   
A woman comes to serve us and tosses an angry glance my way, a glance that she covers up in a second by speaking sweetly in Spanish, asking me if I’d like juice or coffee.  
“Juice,” I answer back, speaking my own Spanish version. She gives Bono a flirtatious smile which he ignores and pours my glass full.  
“Where did you get that dress, anyway?” Bono asks. He knows she couldn’t have bought something like that yesterday.  
“Lina sent it to me.” **With** some more clothes, granted, but I don’t want to clarify.  
“It’s pretty… something.” Bono drinks out of his glass, eyes **dancing** across **the** skin of Marieke’s shoulders.  
I smile, ducking my eyes downward, and take a sip from my own glass.  
Bono has taken **the** bait- **the** very juicy piece of Dutch hotness sitting next to him. It makes me smile. Now that we’re both attracted to each other…  
“Where are we going today?” I have to ask.  
“You mean **the** next tour destination?”   
“Is it in Spain?” I ask.  
Bono corrects me- “No, we’re going to France this time. Spain is over now.”   
France. I have heard all about that country and its wonders. Those of which include Paris, **the** beautiful city of blinding lights.  
“Where in France are we going?”   
“Em… Nantes, have you heard of it?”  
I shake my head. I’ve only heard of Paris. But man, do I want to go there…   
“I’m sure you will like France. I love it there; **the** people are so wonderful…” For a moment I hear a note in Bono’s voice that I’ve only ever heard it MacPhisto’s voice. It shocks me and I have to grip my juice glass even tighter to keep my cool.  
Bono is suffering **the** same effects from one aspect of Marieke he hasn’t noticed before. When she wraps her hand around her glass, his eyes catch on **the** shiny bracelet tight on her wrist. Instantly his gaze travels up to her face, and she’s staring right back at him, her face flushed and her eyes wide. Those blue, blue eyes…  
Then he shakes himself.  
 _What am I thinking? I am a married man. I can’t go flirting **with** this woman._  
“…Speaking of which, I must be going now…” he begins and pushes up from his seat. His mind must still be very muddled.  
I blurt, “No…” but Bono’s already walking away. “And put on something sensible when you’re done eating!” he throws over his shoulder to me.  
I sigh. So he didn’t like it. Who to talk to now? Adam is already getting up to follow Bono, but Edge is still here at **the** table, talking to Morleigh and someone else I don’t know that well. Before I start in on a conversation **with** them, my eyes spy Morleigh’s mass of curls. What…? Those _can’t_ be natural, can they be?  
“Hey, Morleigh?” I start, and they both turn to me. My face reddens, and I look down as I speak, feeling like I’m intruding. “I’m sorry… I just want to ask you a thing, please?”  
“Yes?” Her voice is soft, calming me and telling me that I shouldn’t be embarrassed **with** only one word.  
“Is your hair… it is like that normally?”   
Edge laughs.  
Morleigh shows her amusement by nothing more than a smile. “It’s naturally curly, if that’s what you’re asking. I do curl it a bit more for emphasis though. Do you like how it looks?”   
“Oh yes,” I say, nodding. “I love it. Do you have a… a…” At a loss for words, I make a motion of running my fingers through my hair, pulling an imaginary iron through it.  
“A hairbrush?”   
I shake my head and say **the** word in my own language.  
“A curling iron?”   
That sounds right. “Yes, do you have a curling iron?”   
“You want to try it out? I have one in my room.” Her smile won’t disappear. Edge decides to take this time to point out, “Why are you wearing that dress?”   
“Oh… I got it from Holland in **the** morning…”   
“You’re not trying to impress anyone, are you?” His hazel eyes chuckle at me  
“No!” Although it is a lie.  
“I think Eric was attracted,” Morleigh says **with** a nervous giggle.  
I turn around in my seat and scan for Eric’s face. He’s not looking at me; instead he’s talking **with** some friends. Bemused, I turn back to Morleigh.  
“Along **with** every other man in **the** room,” Edge finishes for her.  
I laugh. “Not you!”   
“Oh, he was too busy **with** _me_ to notice,” Morleigh teases. “Who could bear to take their eyes off someone as beautiful as me to see you?”   
My face falls. “Come on!” I groan in Dutch, forgetting myself again.  
Morleigh’s smile falters, and her gaze is tentative, as she’s wondering what I said. Maybe she thought I swore at her.  
“You sure attracted Bono if no one else,” Edge mutters.  
I think back to that. Had I really done my deed? He had seemed excited when I first came down, but it kind of died off before he left.   
Well, after Morleigh’s gotten to my hair I’ll know for sure what he thinks.   
Speaking of which…  
“Hey Marieke, what about that hair curler?” Edge brings it back up. “You still want that?” Now he throws a pointed look to Morleigh.  
“Oh, yes please,” I answer. “Morleigh, can I have that… curling iron?”   
She looks up. “Oh, of course…”   
I smile and hold out my hand. “I’m not bad.”   
She takes it reluctantly and shakes. “Do you want me to curl your hair for you?”  
“That would be fine,” I tell her. Wait until Bono gets a load of _this!_  
Edge starts suddenly, his eyes trailing Larry as **the** latter walks out of **the** room. “Uh-huh, I think it’s time for me to go.” He stands. “Goodbye, Morleigh, Marieke.”   
Morleigh kisses his cheek. “Have fun!”   
“Bye Edge,” I call as **the** last of U2 exits **the** room.  
I face Morleigh again. She gives me a half-hearted smile. “Well now. Let’s go and get you prettied up.”   
                                         ***  
       I don’t see him again until late at night. My magic has been definitely wrought on Eric so far- he hasn’t taken his eyes off me since I got on **the** plane to Nantes. I fiddle **with** a curl as I take my first steps into France. What will Bono think of this look?  
       In **the** lobby of our hotel, I have only one chance to catch him. I take it and run. Bono doesn’t see me coming until it’s too late and I am standing in front of him, purring a simple “Hello.”   
       Bono is sure his eyes would be bugging out of his head if it were possible. What has Marieke done **with** herself? **The** purple ribbon dress from this morning is gone now, but her hair is bouncing all over her shoulders in loose curls. They look very much like Morleigh’s.  
Hm, Morleigh…  
       “Marieke! What… did you do to your hair?”   
       He seems absolutely taken aback. I am pleased **with** myself. Running my fingers through my new ringlets, I say, “Morleigh curled it for me,” and shake it out.  
       Bono has to stop staring. He doesn’t want to give Marieke any wrong impressions. But… God.  
       “I-em- I have to get going, I’m sorry,” he blurts and leaves her standing there as he rides up in **the** lift.  
       First there is nothing, but then comes **the** disappointment. I thought for sure Bono would take more notice of my new look than that. Maybe he didn’t like it…  
       As he rides up in **the** lift, Bono thinks that he most definitely DID like it. Oh, Marieke… is she flirting **with** him? It’s hard to tell, but how else to explain **the** dress at breakfast and this sudden hair-curling?  
       Suddenly he can’t wait to see his family again. Specifically Ali. How long must it be?  
         Downstairs in **the** lobby, Eric comes up. “Hey, Marieke,” he greets me. “We’re going out for dinner, do you want to join us?” I gaze behind myself and notice **the** group consists of just three crewmen, including Jack but not including **the** jerk-guy, which is what I've decided to call him since I can't remember his name..  
“I might come,” I answer. Reluctantly I turn my back on **the** lift and shake off all feelings Bono. He doesn’t matter. On **the** other hand…  
Eric matters right now. We catch each other’s eyes and he turns away from me, but I realize he’s still not over my new hair. It does strike me dead each time I see my reflection. I suppose for men the effect must be even worse.  
“Eric, should I keep my hair curled?”   
Eric gives the hair a once-over. “Well… yeah, if that’s what you want,” he shrugs.  
I shrug back and allow him to open the door for me, even though I have nothing in my hands. My feet are on the ground and leading me away from the hotel, but my mind has followed Bono back upstairs. What is he doing now? Thinking about me?  
I can’t wait for tomorrow to write the phone call.  
                                                   ***  
     “Hello, Bono.”   
       “Hey, Marieke. Are you doing okay?”   
     “Yes. Why would I not be doing okay?”   
“Eh, just asking. All right, got any paper on you?”  
“Yes, here's my pen too.Where do you want to call?”  
“For France, I don’t want to try anything big yet. We’re going back here later on tour and I want to save some tricks for then.”   
“So you will call… what?”  
         “A taxi. That one’s pretty simple. I’ve done it before as MacPhisto, you know, in Lisbon. I could even, in theory, use the same script.”   
       “Oh, don’t you want me? I’m here to help you.”  
       “Yes, Marieke, I will need you to spice it up a bit. What do you think would happen if I called a   taxi?”  
“Er… what was it in Lisbon?”   
       “They hung up on me.”   
       “Oh! I remember.”  
       A pause.  
       “If a person answers the phone right off, you should ask for what you want. Keep trying to get a taxi even if they say no. If they ask where you are…”   
     “I’m everywhere.”   
       “Oh!”  
       “There’s not a thing wrong with it. In a sense, the Devil is just as omnipresent as God. He- and I mean MacPhisto too- would naturally be _everywhere.”_  
       “But the person will want more to say than that. They don’t know you are MacPhisto.”  
       “So MacPhisto won’t explain himself. In fact, I assume he would be quite insulted if no one knew him!”   
       “You will get hung up on. That’s a warning.”   
       “Oh, that’s all right, it adds to **t** he performance. Now, will you help me write this script?”


	18. What Do You Want?

““Off with the horns, on with the show.”   
       The audience claps and whistles appreciatively. I give MacPhisto a thumbs up, which he can’t see. Tonight Eric is… somewhere else, I don’t really know or care, and I have my backstage perch all to myself.   
       “Look what you’ve done to me,” he continues in a low voice. The crowd is still calm as they cheer. The French are not the most excitable crowd… maybe they were all well prepared for Zoo TV. But none of them have heard of MacPhisto before. Who could fail to love him?  
       “You’ve made me very famous, and I thank you.” The cheer is indeed louder now.  
       “I know that you like your pop stars to be very exciting, so… I bought these,” he concludes, pointing to his shoes. I wait anxiously for the real speech.  
       “Round about this time in the evening proceeding this…” What’s with the extra words? It makes me giggle silently. “I often like to make a telephone call. Sometimes to the President of the United States…” Yeah, blah blah, get on with the show, Mr. MacPhisto.   
       “But not tonight. Tonight I’m calling a taxi, to take me home. I’m very tired.” He walks back on **t** he stage and settles himself down in front of the telephone, stabbing the numbers with a cool air.  
       “C’est bon d'être ici la,” he murmurs in his British accent, pausing for a moment to see if he’s pronounced **the** words right. Apparently he has- **the** French crowd cheers very loudly.  
       Suddenly **the** line MacPhisto has dialed picks up.  
       “Bon soir?” MacPhisto tries on **the** receptionist, encouraged to speak more French by **the** audience. She says something back- I can’t make out **the** words- and he answers her tentatively,     “Je m’appelle Monsieur MacPhisto.” I notice he has pronounced **the** word “monsieur” wrong, but I really don’t care. While **the** crowd cheers, I die a little.  
       “And- um- I’d like to order a taxi to take me home tonight,” he finishes. **The** receptionist says something else I can’t understand, but it sounds like she’s asking where MacPhisto is.  
     “I’m, I’m at **the** stadium **with** a few friends,” he rushes, and **the** “few friends” are very pleased. They let out cheers and claps.   
       “And where can we pick you up?” **the** receptionist asks.   
“Well, I can’t really tell you about where I am, I just have to let you know that I’m _everywhere.”_ MacPhisto sighs. I bite back my smile. Bono’s plan is really working.  
 **The** woman isn’t in **the** mood for games. “No, I must pick you up. Where can we pick you up?” She dissolves into some more incomprehensible words, probably in French.  
“But… I’m _everywhere,”_ MacPhisto insists, putting on his intent expression. I have to actually try to hold in my laughter. **The** smallest of smiles creeps across MacPhisto’s face for a second, obviously Bono acknowledging me backstage.  
“No, em, **the** thing here, you know **the** front entrance?” **The** receptionist has moved from serious to explanatory. She seems to think MacPhisto needs help.  
He doesn’t. “But I don’t need to be there, because I’m _everywhere.”_  
“No, I don’t, I don’t think you have, you don’t…” She’s getting flustered. Time for **the** bomb. It was a stroke of genius on my part to come up **with** this, and Bono was amazed.  
“I know you very well,” MacPhisto begins, smoothing his hair back and calmly latching onto **the** phone cord.  
 **The** woman is scornful. “Oh really?”   
“Yes, I know you probably even better than you know yourself,” he finishes.   
“Oh?” She’s angry. So maybe that wasn’t quite **the** mood we were hoping for, but MacPhisto carries on our dialogue anyway.  
“And I would like to sing a song for you,” he tells **the** woman, and I hope if she’s anything like me she’ll stay on **the** line.  
Her tone changes **with** those words. “Oh, that’s very nice.”   
**The** music begins.  
“Sometimes I feel like I don’t know, sometimes I feel like checking out…”   
                                             ***  
     “Will you give her tickets?” I ask.  
       Eric shrugs his shoulders. “I’m not the one who decides, just the one who makes calls. But I’m betting that Bono won’t find it ideal to give a French woman tickets to a concert in Belgium.”   
       I laugh. “Oh, I see now…”   
       We’ve reached the dressing rooms after the show and Eric takes off, leaving me alone with my favorite four men.  
       Bono comes over before anything else can happen. “Hey!” he exclaims, wrapping his arms tightly around me and squeezing.  
       “Ahhhh…” I sigh, my breath leaving my lungs. It probably wouldn’t be bad to be hugged to death by Bono… I mean, it must be a worthy cause to die for.  
       He releases me and we both take a step back. “Marieke, your script was.... perfect. Just great. You should be proud of yourself.”   
       “It wasn’t all mine!” I don’t want to take too much credit. “You wrote it too. You started it.”   
       “But you’re the one who came up with the end,” he says. “And we can all agree that **t** he ending was the best part. Right, guys?” He turns an eye to Adam, Larry, and Edge, who all look up, surprised.  
       “Oh, yeah **,** the ending of the phone call was great,” Adam says. His eyes are focused on some space above my head.   
       “I was trying not to laugh,” I tell Bono.  
       “Same here!” Edge chimes in. “Poor woman; she probably has no idea what happened to her.”   
       “Unlike you,” Bono points out, regarding me with soft eyes. “You knew exactly what was going on when you got my call, Marieke. I’m so glad you joined our entourage; this show might have gone much differently if you hadn’t written that excellent speech.”   
       “Oh…” I say, dropping my head to hide my blush.  
       “Y’know, it’s not a bad thing that you’re a fan,” Edge says. “We wouldn’t have hired you if you _weren’t_ a fan, because you would have never gotten backstage in **t** he first place and met us.”  
       “Hell, she probably wouldn’t have even gone to the show,” Bono suggests, circling the room. He’s right, of course- Monique didn’t want to go when I offered her **t** he tickets, and if non-fans are anything like her…  
       “Adam, what are you thinking?”  
       The bassist looks down at Bono. “I’m thinking… I’m going to see Naomi in an hour,” he says, folding his arms behind his back.   
       Bono stares. “Oh… oh, yes, I’d forgotten she’s here tonight…” He doesn’t sound particularly happy at the idea.  
       I whisper to Edge, “Who is Naomi?”   
     He murmurs, “Adam’s girlfriend.”  
       Adam has a girlfriend? I didn’t think of that. Then again, I never thought of Bono being married either.   
       “We’ll get you to your Naomi in no time at all,” Larry speaks up for the first time tonight.  
       Adam laughs. “I won’t keep her waiting.”  
       Which means soon it is time to go.  
       “Will you go to a party tonight?” I ask the band as they prepare to leave.  
       Bono sighs. “No. Too much fun the last time. If Naomi wasn’t here we’d be working on the album, I suppose.”   
       “What will you do instead?”  
       “We’re getting some sleep!” Edge calls. “We’ll be going out to Dublin tomorrow morning.”  
       I try not to appear too disappointed. “Oh. Have fun now.”  
       Bono squeezes his arm around my shoulder. “We’re going to, I promise.”  
       I step away from him and smile.  
     Something in Bono’s expression changes with my smile. He blurts out to me- “Yes, tomorrow… Marieke, would you mind coming with us to **t** he studio? We could use another body there.”   
       Wait. What?  
       Edge and Larry look surprised. Adam isn’t taking too much notice in us.  
       “Well…” I stammer. “Of course I would like to come. You know that. Is it… okay?” I raise my eyes to peer nervously at the rest of the band.  
       Edge breaks into a relaxed smile, while Larry doesn’t smile but gives a pleasant nod. Adam breaks from his thoughts to give me a grin.   
     “Of course it’s okay, Marieke,” Edge reassures me. “We’d love to have you, really.”   
       “I wonder what kind of ideas she can provide us?” Larry murmurs, his eyes on me. It’s a little strange to make eye contact with him. We never look at each other at all.  
       Bono beams. “You’ll have to get up rather early- can you manage that?”   
       “It’s not a problem,” I say, thinking of my very late sleeping habits. In Rotterdam Lina would occasionally have to poke me awake.  
       “Okay then. See you there, Marieke.” Bono holds out a hand and we shake on it.  
                                             ***  
       My alarm blares at seven, but the band isn’t downstairs until eight. Of course by this time I’ve already eaten breakfast and am drumming my fingers on the table, wondering if they were taking the mickey when Bono said I’d have to get up early. _Very funny._  
       Eric comes to sit next to me with his plate of food. “Shame we’re not staying here any longer,” he begins, stuffing a forkful of eggs in his mouth. “This is the best breakfast I’ve ever had on tour, I’m pretty sure.”   
       “Ha-ha,” I answer, staring out at the door. Where is U2?  
       Eric follows my stare. “Who are you waiting for?”   
       “Bono invited me to the studio in Dublin,” I respond. “They are late coming down.”   
       Eric’s eyes widen. “I’ve never been in **t** he studio! You’re one lucky chick.”  
       Not knowing what he means by “chick,” I kick **t** he chair legs restlessly.  
       “They’ll be here, Marieke. They won’t take a promise like that back.”   
       “But why do they need me there?” I burst out. “I’m just a girl. U2 doesn’t care about me.”   
       “That’s silly,” Eric says. “They care about you enough to keep you around, obviously. You wouldn’t still be here if Bono didn’t care for you.”   
       That makes sense. “I guess I wouldn’t have a job with Zoo TV if U2 didn’t like me.”   
       “I know. Speaking of which, have you gotten paid for this job yet?”  
       I sigh. He sounds like Lina. “I’ll get paid, don’t worry. Bono has plenty of money to spare.” Or whoever it is that I’m working for.  
       Eric marvels at the sound of my voice. “You’ve learned a lot of English since you joined us.”  
       “Not enough,” I reply, and at last the band enters.  
       Bono has on a red shirt, which surprises me. I’ve never seen him in red except when he’s MacPhisto. And in the Mysterious Ways music video, but I only saw that once on TV. We don’t have a music channel at the flat.  
       “Will you wear your jacket over that?” is the first thing I say to him.  
       “It’s not too bad a look, is it?”   
       Oh, in _no_ way is it bad.  
       Edge is wearing the bejeweled jeans again. Once more I make a mental note to take a photo for Lina’s viewing. Larry has on a more sensible shirt now instead of a tank top. The last man to enter is Adam, leading a girl I’ve never seen before. Her skin is brown and her hair is long and black, though not as long as mine. She struts in with grace in her step. Naomi?  
       “Good morning, Marieke,” Edge greets me. The others nod their hello’s. Edge sits down in the chair to my right, causing Bono to murmur, “Make room for me, Eric?”   
       Eric sadly gets up, and Bono gladly plops down. The rejected man walks away while the newcomer on my left inquires, “So Marieke, how long have you been up?”   
       “Since seven o’clock,” I growl.  
       He leans back. “But you said getting up early wouldn’t be a problem.”  
       I don’t care to answer Bono- he deserves the cold shoulder for making me wait- and turn to look at Edge. God, those pants are really quite beautiful up close. Suddenly Lina’s not **t** he only one who will want a photo.  
       “Edge? Can you do something for me?”   
He looks into my eyes, his glass paused halfway to his mouth. “Oh no. Last time you said that I caused a girl to faint.”   
“She was well, though. Just sad that she couldn’t talk to you.”   
“If she hadn’t fainted we co _uld_ have talked...”   
“You don’t even know what I’m asking. I just want to give a friend a present…”  
“Sorry, I don’t do arranged dates.”   
Bono subtly presses his hand to his mouth to keep from snickering at our exchange. I exhale loudly. Time to stop beating around **the** bush.  
“Can I take a picture of your pants?”   
Bono finds it to be a lost cause and openly guffaws. “Hear that, Reg? Someone- someone must r _eally_ love you!”   
“If you want a photo you can always look at **the** Achtung Baby cover,” Edge suggests, ignoring Bono.  
I groan. “No! I mean, I want a photo for Lina.”   
“Or I could give you **the** real thing,” Edge ponders, seemingly oblivious to my words.  
“Nothing is better than **the** real thing,” Bono murmurs, letting **the** bait hang there in midair.  
Instead of swallowing it, I say, “You’ll give me your pants?”   
Edge chuckles. “I don’t think so. I’m rather fond of these.”   
“Got a camera on you?” Bono asks Eric as he walks by our table.  
Eric stops. “No, but I’ll get one.” He trots back over to **the** other crew members and calls, “Anyone got a camera **with** them?”   
There’s a short search for **the** requested item, and then- “I do,” one guy pipes up, displaying a camera in his hands. I don’t even want to know why.  
Eric collects it and brings **the** object over to **the** table. “What are you taking a picture of?”   
“Edge’s pants,” Larry answers as I snatch **the** camera and turn it on my helpless subject.  
“Don’t focus on his crotch,” Bono advises me, rubbing a hand across his forehead as I snap **the** first shot. “Nothing to see there anyway.”   
Adam and Larry both laugh, while I groan loudly. Edge just looks displeased. “And _how_ would you know, Bono?” he inquires.  
“Sorry, Marieke,” Bono apologizes. “That’s what you get for hanging out with the men… and as for you, Edge, it seems you’ve forgotten that I know you even better than you know yourself.”   
“That’s MacPhisto. Get it right,” I mutter. He doesn’t hear.  
On **the** spur of **the** moment, I hand **the** camera to Eric and wrap my arms around Edge’s waist. Before **the** stunned guitarist can react I say, “Take a photo!”   
Eric snaps **the** shutter. I pull back and run my hand over **the** sparkly surface of his jeans. “I like them!”   
“Oooooh,” Larry snickers, eyeing my hands on Edge’s legs.  
“Shut up,” Edge mutters as I move away and instruct Eric to get **the** film developed.  
“Oh, you guys need to go,” Eric says, checking his watch.  
This prompts Bono to grab Eric’s wrist, saying at **the** same time, “Are you sure?” His doubt clears up when he looks at it, though. “Oh, dammit. We’ve kept **the** other guys waiting out there for so long.”  
“Bye, Eric,” I say, hooking an arm casually around him.  
“I’ll see you, Naomi,” Adam murmurs, and kisses her.  
 **The** rest of **the** band is already walking out.  
As we leave, I ask Edge, “Is sleeping **with** **The** Edge as mind-blowing as sleeping **with** **The** Fly?”   
“I’d prefer to keep that to myself, if you don’t mind.”   
                                     ***  
“Quick! To **the** Zoo Plane!”  
I laugh at Bono as we cross **the** lot. U2’s private owned plane is sitting outside **the** airport, just waiting for occupants. I board it **with** caution and take a window seat.  
 **The** band enters joking **with** each other. Edge follows me down **the** aisle and sits in **the** seat across from me in **the** back. Adam takes a place up front and Bono sits two seats behind him on **the** opposite side, flipping **the** tray out. Larry comes and sits behind Edge.  
After a few more passengers climb on- people who will be joining us in **the** studio, among them Paul and Bill- **the** Zoo Plane speeds down **the** runway. Soon it’s up in **the** air, and I watch **the** ground disappear in **the** clouds.  
 **The** inside of **the** plane is surprisingly quiet. For all **the** talking going on during breakfast and on **the** drive here, I would think **the** plane ride would be **the** same. Since no one else is near me I engage Edge in conversation- “What is it like at **the** studio?”   
Edge tries to describe **the** place I’ll be visiting shortly. “Well, there isn’t anyone doing nothing there, you know? Studio sessions are a lot of work. We’ve been writing for **the** new LP since **the** last tour leg and we want to get that finished up quickly. So everything’s pretty hectic.”   
“Are you recording?” I ask.  
“It’s unlikely, but you might get to see some recording today,” Edge says. “There’s a few songs we’ve got that we still have to work out though. Truthfully, our album is little more than a collection of tracks. I mean, there’s so much… it’s gonna be hard to narrow them all down.”   
I think about that. How many songs do they have? Maybe I could help them decide which ones to use.  
“Hey, Edge, maybe you shouldn’t be telling Marieke about **the** record,” Larry says from behind **the** seat. “Don’t you want to keep it confidential?” He’s teasing though.  
“I think not,” Edge sighs thoughtfully. He turns around to get in a better position to speak **with** Larry. “She’s working for us now. She’s a right to hear it.”   
Larry grins. “And she hasn’t got **the** right to hear about your skills in bed? I’m sure it’s an enlightening topic.”  
“What…? Oh, shut up,” Edge groans, turning back to me. However annoyed he may look, I can’t help but notice **the** flicker of amusement in his eyes.  
I raise my eyebrow. “He’s right; you never answered my question this morning.”  
“What made you think I _would?”_  
I shrug innocently. “Larry says it’s not confidential.”  
Edge holds out his hands. “Okay… let’s just try to keep **the** topic off sex for now.” I was right- he’s very humored. Larry laughs, his handsome features brightening **the** whole plane. “At least not until we get to Dublin, maybe...”  
“Are you seeing anyone there?” I ask, and Edge answers.  
“Do you mean our families?” I nod. “We probably won’t have time. It’s a lot of work, remember? But I know I’d like to see my girls soon.” His voice turns wistful. “And Bono’s family will expect a visit.” By “family” I pretend that he means Bono’s father and brother and not his wife and children.  
Larry sighs quietly. “Adam’s girl gets to drop in on him any time she wishes, but I never see Ann anymore…”  
Wait a second. “You have a girlfriend?” I ask, confused.  
He exchanges looks **with** Edge. “Er, oops, was that truly confidential information…?”  
“Truly,” Edge agrees.  
Down **the** aisle a voice speaks up- “I just heard my name and sex mentioned in **the** same conversation. Should I be concerned?”  
“We were just talking about how _sexy_ you are, Ad,” Larry gushes, while simultaneously rolling his eyes at Edge and I.  
Adam smiles matter-of-factly. “I did do **the** Achtung photoshoot, you know.”   
I remember that photo. It had caused a few raised eyebrows from me and Lina, but for completely separate reasons.  
“Watch it, Clayton,” Edge warns. “I said no sex talk till we get home.”  
I repeat Lina’s words when she’d seen **the** Achtung photo- “Too bad it will be X-ed out.”  
“The X shows where **the** treasure is buried,” Bono murmurs in his seat.  
Men.  
***  
 **The** clouds lift when we reach Dublin, but we’re whisked into a car before I can study my surroundings. All I know is that **the** city is cooler than France was and has gray, red, white buildings. **The** studio is tranquil on **the** outside, its wrapping dull stone. However, just as there’s chocolate beneath **the** package’s surface, so **the** inside of **the** building springs to life.  
“All right, get to work,” Bono exclaims as he strides through **the** door, rubbing his hands together. They greet **the** people who were already waiting for them, and then speedily become a flurry of motion. Edge wasn’t kidding when he mentioned that no one was doing nothing.  
I am lost in **the** motion and sit down in **the** nearest possible chair. I’d like to go explore **the** other rooms, but I don’t know where to start. No need to notice me, I’m just a girl U2 brought along, pay me no mind…  
       But of course someone does pay me mind eventually. It’s Edge, kindly showing that he has not forgotten my existence, unlike everyone else. He’s carrying a guitar in his arms- it looks so natural there. I reckon no one can give it a better home.  
       “Marieke, there’s something I’d like to show you. You said you’d like to see some recording, so…”   
       I perk up. Edge smiles, I nod, and he motions down the hall. I follow Edge into another room- there’s a recording booth in here. Outside the glass is a soundboard, where one man sits. Edge greets him while I promptly sit down again. He has a variety of effect pedals and other gear in and outside the booth, and I’m afraid of messing anything up.   
     “Marieke, can you please press that button for me?” Edge gestures behind the glass.  
       The man at the soundboard switches his gaze from Edge to me, rather astonished. “Don’t you want me to do that?” he mouths, tapping his chest to indicate himself because Edge can’t hear him in the soundproof area.  
       “No,” Edge tells him, and with his assent I press the button. One sentence is left unsaid- _I want Marieke to feel like she’s helping._  
       Edge begins to play, pushing down on a pedal. The riff dances throughout the air, and it shocks me. The simplicity of the riff would stick out in normal guitar-playing, but the effect Edge is uses swathes it in power. He shifts around on four notes, climbing up from one note and hitting a lower tone from the same. The tune repeats over and over, and Edge stops playing before I can get sick of it. He moves and the man next to me finishes recording.  
       Edge sets his guitar down. “Did you like it?”   
       The answer is a resounding, “YES!” The riff was almost equal to the ones for Where The Streets Have No Name and Ultraviolet, only a little less familiar, more alien. And of course this was shorter.  
       He smiles a little. “It’s funny, I really like that riff too but I’ve got nowhere to put it.”   
       “What was the… thing?” I ask, and with Edge’s help get to the word “effect pedal.”   
“Oh, I'm just using delay and the wah-wah effect." I giggle at the name.  
       By now more people have gathered in the room, drawn by the sound of Edge’s guitar. Bono pushes his way through, asking “Has Edge recorded something?” The spark in his eyes suggests that it’s a rare occurrence.  
       “Oh, it’s nothing you can use,” Edge tells Bono as the singer plays the lick back. His eyes narrow. “Hmmm…”   
       “Hey, we need you in the other room,” Larry calls, entering. “Adam’s _this_ close to trashing Babble and he wants your opinion.”   
       “No, wait!” Bono yells, rushing out.  
       “What’s Babble?” I ask Edge, bemused. He doesn’t listen. He’s following his bandmates, the excitement of sharing his work with me forgotten.  
       In the other room, a fuss has begun. Bono is stalking around Adam like a cat cornering its prey. “Adam, I thought you wanted this track,” he spits out.   
       “I just think it would help if we erased it,” Adam says. He’s holding his hands up. “Larry’s in favor of that and so is Edge.”   
       “How do you know that?” Edge says, miffed. “You never asked me.”   
       “Well, I say trash Babble,” Larry offers. “We’re not getting anywhere with it.”   
       “I told you to leave it be!” Bono growls. “I want to keep that track. Remember what we discussed last time we were here?”  
       “It’s not worth getting worked up about, B,” Edge soothes. “We can’t record a new Babble. We’ve spent too much time working on that song and it doesn’t even have lyrics. It’s time to give up and focus on other things.”   
       Bono stops walking. “You were the one who dug those soundchecks out! You thought of that song first…”  
       “If I’m its creator, by all rights I should be the one to destroy it.”  
     Suddenly Bono’s eyes glow, and he blurts “Trash Babble and you trash Zooropa.”  
       “But-“  
     “ _Trash Babble and you trash Zooropa.”_  
   “Bono-“   
_“Trash. Babble. And. You. Trash. Zooropa,”_ Bono practically snarls, invading The Edge’s personal space. The guitarist finds him too close for comfort and backs away.   
       “We’re not getting rid of Zooropa, Bono.”  
       “Why _not,_ though?” Bono spins around. “Why don’t we just chuck your precious Zooropa and be done with it? What’s stopping us?”  
       Adam speaks up. “It’s got some of the best lyric work I’ve heard from you guys so far. I won’t let you destroy a work of art like that.”   
       Larry sighs. “Zooropa- God, what the hell is _wrong_ with that song?”   
       Bono’s eyebrows angle downward. “This is the first complaint I’ve heard about it from you, Lar.”   
       “Don’t get me wrong, Bono, I like the song just fine. But…” He shakes his head. “It isn’t working. I’m sorry.”   
     “But we CAN’T get rid of that one,” Bono emphasizes. “That song is the essence of this album. That song is everything that Zoo TV stands for. We… I need this song.”   
       He looks depressed for a moment, and my arms itch to hug him.  
       “If that’s what this album is about… it’s amazing we’ve gotten this far on it,” Larry says. “If Zooropa is stands for Zoo TV… well, it’s a wonder the tour’s not ended yet.”  
       “What do you mean, Larry?”   
       “Can’t you tell? Zooropa is a mess!”  
       Bono opens his mouth, as if he’s trying to say something, but ends up closing it again without a defense.  
       “Fuck this,” he finally manages, and stalks out into the recording room. Of course I follow him.  
       Bono sits down at the soundboard outside the booth and fiddles with some buttons. Soon a song is thrumming across the room, a cacophony of noise that assaults my system. I try to pick out coherent words, but it’s near impossible.  
       “That’s Babble,” Bono informs me.  
       He presses a few more buttons and we listen to a new song. This one features Bono’s vocals.  
 _And I have no compass_  
 _And I have no map_  
 _And I have no reason, no reason to get back_  
 _And I have no religion_  
 _And I don’t know what’s what_  
 _And I don’t know the limit, the limit of what I’ve got_  
       “Zooropa,” Bono mumbles under his breath, and pricks his ears at the sound of Edge walking into the room.  
       “I can’t believe Adam said this has some great lyrics in it,” Bono tells the guitarist. “Larry’s right, it is a mess.”   
       “Don’t think that way,” Edge tries to assure him. “We’ll work it out.”   
       “I just can’t get it right!” Bono complains, standing up and pacing about the room. “I know what’s in my head… I know what I’m writing about… I see it so well…”   
     He turns to Edge with a panicked expression.  
     “Maybe I’m losing my touch?”   
     “You’re not losing anything,” Edge tells him. “It’s just hard to get your mind out on paper. We’ll fix that.”   
       “I say just throw it away,” Larry pipes up, sidling into the room. “Believe me. The more you think about that song, the less you’ll like it. We’ve experienced that before. Start from complete scratch.”   
     “And who asked you?” Bono mutters, his tone unfriendly.  
       “No one, but you needed to hear it.” Larry sways over to the recording board, and Adam cautiously appears in this room. He lights a cigarette.  
       “See, we can just erase the track right now…” Larry’s hand hovers over the switches.  
       “NO!” Bono hurries over, arms out, ready to restrain Larry from doing the deed.  
       “Don’t. You. Dare.”  
       “Just get rid of both tracks,” Adam offers, sending glares from all sides in his direction.   
       The arguing breaks out, even nastier than before. I can’t believe no one’s doing anything to stop them. Then again, maybe it’s safer not to interfere. But I should do _something_ … It’s getting pretty horrible to hear them shouting at each other. This isn’t the day I was promised.  
       I hold my hand over the controls and pull up any switches that look like they control volume. Then I push the button to play a track and Edge’s riff from previously booms over the speakers.  
       Instantly all the band members stop fighting and their attentions to me. Larry and Edge press their hands over their ears- the riff is very loud.  
       I haven’t been aware I’m shaking until now. “Please,” I say. “Stop.”   
     I press the button for a new track and shift to Babble. They’re still staring at me. I play Edge’s riff again, and then move it into Zooropa. The segue works surprisingly well.  
       I can practically see the light turn on in Bono’s head. Slowly, the others come to the same realization.  
       I turn the sound off.  
       The first to speak is Edge. “Oh… why didn’t we think of that before?”   
       “Connect the two tracks…” Adam murmurs, his cigarette pinched between two fingers, forgotten.  
       Bono walks over and plays the tracks again in the same order. He shakes his head with a wondering smile and bursts out laughing. “Oh God, I never noticed that before. Thank you… thank you so much, Marieke. You’ve fixed Babble and Zooropa for us!”   
       “Now we get to splice the tracks together, or rerecord each one,” Edge says.  
       “But the song won’t be long enough,” Larry says. “At least, I think it needs more… oomph.”  
       A glazed look comes across Bono’s eyes. He turns and walks out of the room.  
“Where’s he going?” I ask.  
     “Don’t mind it,” Edge tells me. “He’s probably got some idea that will help the song even more.”   He has a look of awe in his eyes, as if he can’t believe some random U2 fan could come into the studio and recreate a song perfectly. Well, believe it, fellow.  
       “Edge, I need you!” Bono calls from the other room.  
       Edge and I go to see what Bono wants. The singer holds out a sheet of paper to Edge. He takes it and within a few moments utters a gasp of shock.  
       “Bono, it’s brilliant!”   
      “What is it?” I ask.  
       Bono teases the paper from Edge’s hand and gives it to me. “These are the lyrics,” he says, and I read them.  
 _Vorsprung du Technik_  
 _Be all that you can be_  
 _Be a winner, eat to get slimmer_  
 _A bluey white_  
 _It could be yours tonight_  
 _Mild and green_  
       “I think “squeaky clean” could fit in well after that one,” Bono muses. “After all, it is a dishwashing liquid.”   
       “These are from…?”  
       “Adverts, yes,” Bono says. “God! When I wrote “Ring of confidence” in my lyrics I never thought it would come to a use!”   
       “And it never would have if it wasn’t for Marieke,” Edge says.  
       “Right. You are right.” Bono pulls his arms around my hips and hugs me tightly. I squeak and hug him back hard. His forehead presses against my ear, and his lips find their way to my cheek. An electric shock runs through me and dissipates as he pulls away.  
       “You’re a genius,” he proclaims for the world to hear. Then, “Let’s get working on this, Edge.”   
       I stand there and finger my cheek. He’s kissed me there before, as MacPhisto, but this feels more potent. I love this man so much.  
     I have singlehandedly saved a U2 song from being scrapped. And it was apparently the choice of a genius.  
     I guess they do care about me after all.


	19. Near Wild Heaven (Not Near Enough)

       Over the course of two concerts and all the time between them, I begin to perceive Bono in a way I haven’t before now. The more time we spend together, the more I notice the change. He becomes more real to me, less like a celebrity I admire and more like a true person. I catch glimpses of the human beneath his exterior. And I become more enamored with him.  
       There’s no specific time that my view shifts. It could have been there all along, lying dormant until now. However, I can think of three events that were catalysts in bringing about my new perception. First there was the night we stayed up late in Belgium…  
 _“It’s a taxi again? Why?”_  
 _“I can’t think of anything easier for you.” Bono yawns quietly. “Or me for that matter… my brain’s too dead to think now.”_  
 _“Relax and I’ll write it,” I say. “The call should be prepared by tomorrow’s show. Come on…”_  
 _He gives me his paper and I read the words out loud._  
 _“Off with the horns, on with the show… let me introduce you to_ my _band! On my right we have our guitarist-“ I stop reading and look at Bono. “Our guitarist? Really?”_  
 _“Keep reading. It gets better,” he mumbles._  
 _“…known to his close friends as Reggie the Dog- The Edge!” I laugh. “Is that why you call him Reg?”_  
 _“Yes, go on,” is Bono’s response. I scan the paper with my eyes and finish reading silently, mouthing the words to myself. When it’s over I flip the paper down and clasp my hands, staring over at Bono. He looks… well, exhausted. And no wonder- we’ve waited until midnight to do this. At the time I was glad I remembered, but now it just feels silly to be up so late._  
 _“You should go to sleep,” I inform Bono. We’ve both had a long day, but he had more work to do._  
 _“No, you were right earlier when you said we had to write this now.”_  
 _“I don’t think so anymore,” I say. “We have most of tomorrow. There’s the bed, now sleep in it.” Good thing we’re in Bono’s room and not mine…_  
 _He laughs. “You make it sound so simple.”_  
 _“I make it sound simple because it is simple. Go to bed.”_  
 _“No, no, now you’ve got me stuck on this phone call,” he insists. “I can’t sleep now…”_  
 _“Okay.” I hand the paper over. “I don’t like the “guitarist, bassist, drummer” part. You should write it differently.”_  
 _He takes a look. “How do you want to say it?”_  
 _I pull the paper back and make mental revisions as I read aloud. “Let me introduce you to_ my _band. On my right, the man known to his close friends as Reggie the Dog- The Edge! On my left, Adam Clayton, the cat that got **t** he cream. Behind me is the man who could put Bruce Springsteen out of a job- Larry Mullen Junior!” _  
_Bono has a strange expression on his face._  
 _“What?”_  
 _“Sorry… I’m losing my train of thought. Do you like watching me perform your words onstage?”_  
 _“It’s not always my words,” I say. “You do most writing. And sometimes there are surprises in the speech.”_  
 _“Well… I thought if you liked, we could get you a seat in the audience. Give you the full effect.” He rubs his hand across his eyes._  
 _Now that sounds surprisingly great. I’ve missed being among my fellow fans in **t** he crowd. “I’d do that.” _  
_“Tomorrow?” he asks._  
 _“Maybe… speaking about tomorrow, go to sleep! We can finish this in the morning.”_  
 _“That’s a good idea,” Bono agrees. I collect the script and turn around as he changes clothes._  
 _“How do I know you’re not going to join me in here once I crash?” the voice echoes from the bed behind me._  
 _“I won’t do that,” I sniff, pretending to be insulted. I’m plenty tired myself, but not_ that _tired. Turning around, I give the bed a glance. He looks so… inviting…_  
 _“No, you won’t,” Bono says, and opens his eyes as wide as they can go and grins creepily at me._  
 _I roll my eyes. “Goodnight.”_  
 _“Night.” Shades pull over his blue irises and in a few minutes he’s gone._  
 _Instead of just leaving right now, I sit down at **t** he end of his bed. I’ve never seen Bono asleep before… It’s entrancing to watch him. Pretty soon I snap out of it, and silently exit the room, feeling like a stalker._  
       It was the next day that I heard MacPhisto change the words of my little speech. Onstage he had introduced Adam as “A man with a ginormous willy!” making me almost fall over with laughter. Then MacPhisto had cockily added, “But it’s not as big as my one.” I’d blushed extremely and tried not to think about it.  
       I had been backstage at Werchter, because it felt wrong to steal a seat from another fan. In Frankfurt, however, I enjoyed the show from the front row and saw Bono open his heart to the audience, the second event I can recall which helped me view him as a different person.  
 _“Loooove,” Bono sings at **t** he end of Mysterious Ways, and Morleigh twists out of sight. I’m right by the stage in the audience, but it’s not as fun as I thought it would be. The fans on either side of me jostle and poke unintentionally as they try to get in a better position. And I can’t even speak German to tell them to bug off._  
 _Bono makes his way to **t** he front of the stage, shadeless, sweaty, and sexed up. Edge begins a certain riff. Bono slides a guitar over his head and fingers the microphone. It’s hard to focus on anything but how close he is to me, how the movements of his fingers and mouth are distracting and contradict the sentimentality of **t** he song._  
 _“Is it getting better?” Bono asks the audience. “Or do you feel the same? Will it make it easier on you, now you’ve got someone to blame? You say…”_  
 _He holds up a finger, motioning for us to sing along. We raise our voices. “One love… one life… when it’s one need in the night…”_  
 _Bono gazes out into the dark sky and leads us along. “One love… you get to share it… leaves you, baby, if you don’t care for it.” His voice grows harsher on that line, and his hands pull across his black guitar, strumming the strings. Even though I’m practically under his nose, I still can’t hear the notes coming from his instrument. We’re drowning it out with our voices._  
 _“Did I disappoint you?” he wonders out loud without anger, just resignation. “Or leave a bad taste in your mouth? You act like you never had love, and you want me to go without!”_  
 _I sway back and forth and watch the video screens, which are showing a video of buffaloes running in a field. This takes away from the mood for me. What I find more moving is the word ONE, flashing quietly on the smaller screens in a few different languages. I concentrate on Bono and sing with him-_  
 _“Well it’s too late tonight, to drag the past out into the light. We’re one-“ Here he closes his eyes. “But we’re not the same. We get to carry each other, carry each other, one…” His voice trails off, and he opens his eyes and forces himself to play the guitar. Edge’s own guitar rings out purely in a miniature solo._  
 _“One,” I sing back, very softly. The fans around me are rocking from side to side, holding cigarette lighters aloft. I don’t smoke, so I thrust my empty hands in the air and join in without one._  
 _“Have you come here for forgiveness?” Bono asks, coming back in. “Have you come to raise the dead? Have you come here to play Jesus?”_  
 _Looking down, he answers his own question._  
 _“I did._  
 _“Did I ask too much, more than a lot? You gave me nothing, now that’s all I got. We’re one… but we’re not the same. Well, we hurt each other then we do it again.”_  
 _The entire audience seems to be on their feet, moving, swinging back and forth gently, breathing completely in sync. The song has brought us to be One._  
 _“Love is a temple, love the higher law!” Bono sings with an almost sobbing quality, his voice much louder than us. “Love is a temple, love the higher law! You asked me to enter, but then you made me crawl… and I can’t be holding on to what you got, when all you got is hurt.”_  
 _“One love,” we sing together, as Edge’s guitar begins to ring again in the most beautiful way. “One blood. One life, you get to do what you should.”_  
 _“One life, with each other,” Bono cries out. He is inside the song now, his eyes staring out at something only he can see. “Sisters, brothers…” And he closes them again._  
 _“One life, but we’re not the same, we get to carry each other, carry each other… one.” There’s no cheering in **t** he stadium, only the sound of over a hundred voices singing along with Bono. Edge starts a solo once Bono stops singing. The latter man still has his eyes closed, beginning to sway with us._  
 _Just now Edge’s guitar hits some notes that are absent on the album version, notes that I want listen to more closely. Too bad Bono starts shouting over them, raising his voice in a call to God. His words aren’t present on the album song either._  
 _“You hear me coming, Lord? Hear me call? Hear me knocking, knocking at your door?” Emotion scorches his voice. “Hear me coming, Lord? Hear us call? See me knocking, but you made me crawl.” His eyes snap open at once, and I find myself caught in his gaze. He only locks eyes with me for a second, and then closes them again to sing in a falsetto tone, slowly drawing the song to a close._  
 _“Yeah, love…” The buffaloes on the screen pause in their march, ending in a still of one buffalo falling off a cliff. Edge shakes his guitar a little before letting Bono take over with his rhythm guitar. Now I can hear his playing more clearly, and it’s really not bad._  
 _“Oh, oh my love… oh my darling, I hunger for your touch. A long and lonely time.” I recognize the song- Unchained Melody, a tune I’ve always liked. This version is even better._  
 _“And time goes by so slow… and time can change so much. Are you still mine?” Bono peers into the audience self-consciously, finally registering the ecstatic fans._  
 _“I need your love… I need your love… Godspeed your love to me. Speed your love to… me,” he concludes, drawing his hand once across **t** he strings of his guitar. We burst into applause. He looks at us wonderingly, amazed at our response, and smiles with a tired gleam in his eye._  
     No matter what Bono says about Zooropa, the song that stands for Zoo TV is One. It was only the third single off Achtung Baby, and got more plays on the radio in Holland than any of the other releases. The next day I was invited back to the studio in Dublin, and that was the moment I finally realized who Bono the human is.  
 _“Good to have you, Marieke,” Paul greets me as I stride down **t** he hall. “The band called you in?” I nod. “Why am I here again?” _  
_“They want your opinion on the album. We’re about to send it off to PolyGram and_ someone _thought it was important if you helped decide tracklisting.” He follows me as I continue down **the** hall, guessing at who **the** _ someone _is. “I’ve no idea why he chose you, but you should consider yourself very lucky.” Everyone’s been saying that about me these days._  
 _At the end of **the** hall is **the** room with the soundboard that I was previously in. Bono is waiting for me with his head propped up on his palms. Edge, Adam, and Larry are all there as well, along with a few other people. I recognize them but never cared to discover their names._  
 _“Marieke, hello! So glad to see you.” Bono rises and gives me a brief squeeze. “Now that we’re all in attendance…” I take a seat, ready to hear about **the** album._  
 _Edge is **t** he first to speak up. “One thing’s for sure- Zooropa is **the** opener.” _  
_“May I hear it?” I ask shyly, folding my legs. I want to know what they’ve done with the song I practically created._  
 _“Certainly.” Edge gets up and presses some buttons on **the** soundboard, and a second later **the** finished product of Babble and Zooropa is blaring out._  
 _At first I only hear a mixture of voices “babbling” away. **The** familiar sound is pleasing to **the** ear. Slowly **the** voices become louder, more pronounced, and some piano chords are struck. Then Edge’s guitar riff on **the** wah-wah pedal enters, playing those four notes up and down and obscuring all else. **With** that riff comes a shift in **the** song’s expression._  
 _“What do you want?” I don’t recognize that voice, but **the** question it asks brings a smile from me. It is answered by a phrase that I can’t understand- is that French? **The** first voice returns asking again what I want. _ I want to hear some singing!  
 _Surprisingly my want is fulfilled. Bono’s recorded voice half-speaks **the** first word- “Zooropa. Vorshprung Du Technik. Zooropa. Be all that you can be…”_  
 _I steal a glance at Bono, and he grins. “Do you like it?”_  
 _“But yes!”_  
 ** _The_** _song continues to speak of advertisements, and after **the** line “We’ve got that ring of confidence” Edge’s delayed guitar returns, playing alone. It sounds a bit deeper from **the** last riff._  
 ** _The_** _song erupts. “And I have no compass… and I have no map…”_  
 ** _The_** _extreme euphoria of it all is just… explosive. Already a smile is playing around my lips, and I bring my hands together **with** a clap, closing my eyes. Just when I think that Zooropa can’t get any more uplifting, Bono’s voice comes up **with** **the** words “Let’s go to **the** overground… get your head out of **the** mud, baby!” _  
_I snap my eyes open and stare over at Bono. He gazes back **with** impenetrable blue eyes._  
 _“Plant flowers in **the** mud, baby,” he mouths to **the** recording. “Overground…” _  
**_The_** _song is over too soon. It calmly finishes up **with** **the** words, “She’s gonna dream of **the** world she wants to live in. She’s gonna dream out loud.” _  
_“Dream out loud,” Bono says, standing and cutting **the** song off. “How was that for you?” _  
_I’m trembling, **the** smile stuck madly on my face. “THAT. WAS. INCREDIBLE!” _  
_Everyone chuckles at my answer, Bono particularly loudly._  
 _“So glad you like it,” he says. “You made it, you know.”_  
 _They start discussing what **the** next song will be after Zooropa._  
 _“May I hear **the** other songs?” I ask. I am supposed to be helping out. Edge nods and presses some more buttons to let me hear different tracks. I listen to snippets of sound **with** unusually rapt attention._  
 _“How many songs are on it?”_  
 _“We’ve evened it out to ten,” Edge says. “Cut out all **the** rockers and kept all **the** pop songs.”_  
 _“Funny, I thought Velvet Dress was a pop song,” Larry comments to no one. “I really liked that one…”_  
 _“We can use it for **the** next album,” Bono suggests. I snort **with** humor. No one wants to think about another album just now._  
 _“ I should choose track five,” I let Edge know. “The… certain, special song… that will be **the** turn-around song on **the** album. It will be in **the** middle to make way for **the** next… half.” _  
_“I’ve never thought of **the** importance,” Adam says, surprised. I tell him, “It’s even more important for a ten-track album.”_  
 _I let Edge play me some more soundbites. Then a breezy intro catches my ears. I say, “Stop. Let me hear this.” Ignoring **the** stares shot at me, I sit up and listen hard._  
 _“Green light, seven eleven… you stop in for a pack of cigarettes… you don’t smoke, don’t even want to… hey now, check your change.”_  
 _My attention holds- so far so good. **The** voice continues, “Dressed up like a car crash, your wheels are turning but you’re upside down. You say when he hits you, you don’t mind.” _  
_Sadness overwhelms me when I hear **the** next line. “Because when he hurts you, you feel alive. Oh, now, is that what it is?”_  
 ** _The_** _song is so hypnotic. I motion for Edge to sit down and listen all **the** way to **the** end. My vastly improved English helps me to understand each word of **the** song- and each word brings another layer of grief. Where did _ this _come from?_  
 _“Marieke?” Bono calls me back to reality. I startle at finding his voice to be **the** only sound in **the** room, **the** last echoes of a cymbal beat sinking into **the** walls. “Are you okay?” _  
_“Er…” I don’t know if I’m okay, after hearing such an affecting song. “Yes, I’m fine. That… can that be **the** fifth track?” _  
_Bono whistles. “Well, if we can find two halves to build around it, then Stay is track five… and if Babble-Zooropa is track one, we’ve gotten two down now.” He laughs at himself. “Let’s see if Marieke’s idea works.”_  
 _It does. **The** band explores **the** sound and feel of each song and slots two tracks between Babble-Zooropa and Stay. They choose a closer for **the** album very swiftly, and it confuses me. I can hear all **the** background music just fine… but who’s singing?_  
 _“Who-“ I begin._  
 _“It’s Johnny Cash,” answers Edge, smiling a little when I make a face. His voice is too low for my taste._  
 _“We’re closing **the** album **with** a musical joke,” Bono laughs. “Just to add to **the** feeling of completely alienating **the** listeners.” _  
_We all stay in **the** room to hear **the** complete tracks and how they sound together. U2 is very pleased **with** it all. I am just happy to hear **the** songs in full, thinking, _ I don’t have to wait to buy **the** new album and listen to it then.  
 _“Now **the** record’s about ready to be shipped off to PolyGram,” Paul says. “They’ll decide how to promote it from there. Thank you for your work, Marieke.”_  
 _“You’re welcome,” I tell him, shaking his hand. We exit **the** room._  
 _“Who’s up for lunch?” Bono asks as he goes to get his jacket. “Treat’s on me.”_  
 _“Me,” Edge, Adam, Larry, and I chorus in unison._  
 _Bono laughs at us. “Marieke, you’re just like part of **the** band now.” _  
_What an honor! I like that very much._  
 _Before we can all get outside, someone else comes in. We all turn at **the** sound of **the** door, and Bono rushes forward._  
 _“Ali…? What are you doing here?”_  
 _Ali? Who? It’s a woman who has entered, someone who is smaller than me, **with** a kind face and raven black hair. She’s very pretty- statuesque, almost like a goddess._  
 _And as Bono hugs her, I realize she’s very in love, just like me. Only she actually has a real claim on Bono._  
 _“I came to see you,” Ali answers. “I knew you were working in **the** studio and I had to drop in before you left.” _  
_“Mmm…” Bono kisses her forehead. “I’m glad you came.”_  
 _Turning around, he introduces her to me. “Marieke, this is Ali, my wife.” He says **the** words **with** such pride and love, as if polishing them up. I muster up a decent smile to Ali._  
 _“And this is Marieke. She’s been helping us a lot on tour.” Ali nods politely and breaks free of Bono’s arms to shake my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”_  
 _“And you,” I answer, all at once self-conscious. I haven’t brushed my hair at all today, and my voice sounds suddenly too foreign, **with** my Dutch accent… and what about my clothes? At once I regret wearing a tank top- maybe it’s too revealing?_  
 _Ali doesn’t look **the** least judgmental, but you can never tell. She smiles and drifts back over to Bono- “How’s your record going, love?”_  
 _“It’s finally finished. Thank God.” He embraces her again and takes her mouth in his mouth. I wonder why he’s showing off to me like this._  
 _“Where are **the** girls?” he asks when they’re done kissing._  
 _“I left them **with** someone. They’re all right.” She stares at her audience of **the** other band members and me._  
 _Bono senses that she’s a little uncomfortable and lets her go. She goes to greet **the** rest of **the** band. Edge eyes Bono and asks in a low voice, “The lunch?”_  
 _“Ali, would you like to come to lunch **with** us?” Bono asks. _  
_“Of course. Gosh, I haven’t seen you guys in ages.” We leave **the** studio **with** her talking away to them- but never again to me._  
 _At **the** restaurant, Bono does all sorts of things to remind me that he and Ali are together. His hand over hers. His arm on her shoulders. **The** little glimpses into each other’s eyes, **the** words they exchange before eating- “I missed you.” “Me too.”_  
 _It’s enough to make me sick **with** jealousy. This is worse than **the** girls MacPhisto dances **with** onstage every night, because he barely knows any of them. As a result I spend **the** rest of **the** lunch ignoring Ali- and she ignores me right back._  
 _When we leave **the** restaurant, preparing to go to **the** airport and fly back to Germany, Bono slips his shades back on and allows Ali to smooth his hair. God, I want that so badly… As they kiss for **the** last time, I can’t help noticing how well they match, and stumble away from **the** exchange, engaging Edge loudly in conversation. He looks kind of sick of it too, except for certainly different reasons than I._  
 _“Say! You didn’t tell me **the** name of **the** new album.”_  
 _“Well…” Edge’s eyes dance. “You know, I wanted to call it Squeaky… there’s a line in Zooropa that uses that word, I love that line…” Seeing my obvious dislike of **the** word, he goes on- “But we’re just calling **the** album Zooropa.”_  
 _At this moment Bono catches up to us. “Hey! That was a nice lunch, wasn’t it? Impressed **with** Ireland, Marieke?”_  
 _I decide not to tell him that I couldn’t care less about Ireland, and swallow my pent-up, irrational anger at him. “It was good.” Good, good, good…_  
       Yes. That **the** final moment where I stopped seeing Bono as a hot rock star and started seeing him as a human like me. And now I can’t stop noticing all **the** little flashes of _him,_ small details in his words and actions that reveal his true self. I’ve discovered I don’t just love him for his fame and personas- I’m ready to fall in love with the man I know is there. But first I had to get a good dose of reality- Bono already has feelings for another woman.  
       But what if…


	20. Chapter 20

On the third of June, the Zoo TV tour hits Germany. I find myself in Munich, a place I’ve never been. Life continues at a quick pace, and I push all past events behind me. Tomorrow is **the** show, and I must conjure up a script for MacPhisto. Of course, I will need a little help **with** that…  
“Marieke, it’s time we made a phone call to a real person. Time to test our your skills at writing.”   
“Really? Who are we calling?”  
“Helmut Kohl, **the** chancellor of Germany. MacPhisto’s tired of playing around **with** taxi companies. He wants to come and greet his old friends.”   
“Have you started **the** script?”   
“Yes, here it is… Tell me what you think.”   
A pause.  
“Why do you have to keep using **the** same phrases over and over again? You should break it up throughout **the** speech. Don’t say them all at once.”   
“What do you mean?”   
“I mean, every night you repeat these phrases. _Off **with** **the** horns, on **with** **the** show… Do you know who I am? I know you even better than you know yourself… I know you like you’re pop stars to be exciting, so I bought these… At this time of night I like to make a phone call. Sometimes to **the** President of **the** United States, but not tonight… _ Have you EVER called **the** President of **the** United States?”   
“No, not as MacPhisto. **The** Mirrorball Man tried him.”   
“So that doesn’t need to be said anymore. MacPhisto is not **the** same person as Mirrorball Man.”  
“It’s really not that different playing them. They perform **the** same songs… they both make phone calls…”  
“Don’t tell me **the** only difference is that one is American and **the** other is British. _They are very different._ MacPhisto’s got more of a personality.”  
“Yes… yes, you’re right. Truthfully, you know more about his personality than I do.”   
“Yes. That’s why I’m here to help. So-“   
“So, I’ll try not to use as many catchphrases at once. Is that what you want?”   
“No, I just think you should spread them out. How about explaining about your shoes when you’ve finished saying who you’re calling? Maybe when you’re dialing **the** phone, you can say “Helmut Kohl likes exciting pop stars like me- that’s why I bought these.””   
“Oh, I see what you mean! That’s right, it sounds like something MacPhisto would say. Why don’t we write that?”   
A pause.  
“Off **with** **the** horns, on **with** **the** show.”   
“PAUSE!”  
“Okay… **the** audience is clapping. Em… Do you know who I am?”   
“YEAH!”   
“Because I know who you are… I know you all probably even better than you know yourself.”  
“Yes…”  
“This is MY band. Shall I introduce them?”  
“PAUSE!”   
“No, Marieke, really a pause wouldn’t fit well right there.”   
“I’m not saying pause. I’m telling you to stop talking. You don’t need to introduce U2. Everyone in **the** stadium knows them. You introduced them in Frankfurt- Germany is familiar.”   
“But Munich is farther away from Frankfurt. It’s highly unlikely that **the** same people will be at both shows.”   
“Well, don’t you want to shorten **the** speech a bit? Introductions take time. Start over.”   
“All right… Off **with** **the** horns, on **with** **the** show. Applause, Marieke… Do you know who I am? Cause I know who you are. I know you all probably even better than you know yourself. This is MY band. I came up **with** all this. Am I doing well, Marieke?”  
“That’s an unusual addition…”  
“Mind- **the** man behind me might have a few objections…”   
“Why?”   
“He started this band first. Though I suppose MacPhisto could also be talking about rock and roll culture. Anyway… I like what we have so far.”   
“But it’s not finished. Start over.”   
“A bit pushy, are we? Off **with** **the** horns, on **with** **the** show…”   
***  
“…do you know who I am?”   
I mouth “PAUSE!” at MacPhisto, who unfortunately doesn’t see me **with** his back turned. But he does pause without my help, and **the** audience shouts “YEAH!”   
This show has brought about **the** first major changes in **the** main set that I’ve seen. **The** band sacrificed Bad’s life at **the** expense of Sunday Bloody Sunday. God knows I prefer this change. I thought U2 had all but forgotten they even made an album called War.  
Right now, **the** **Devil** is beaming. “Because I know who you are. I know you probably even better than you know yourself.” He waves his arm and **the** crowd responds happily. “I thought all this up. This is MY band.”   
As **the** crowd cheers, I steal a glance at Larry, **the** “man behind me.” He doesn’t look opposed to MacPhisto’s words in **the** least. Bono shouldn’t have worried.  
Mr. MacPhisto is now asking **the** audience, “Do you know who Helmut Kohl is?” **The** fans shout their assent. “He’s becoming a very good friend of mine.”   
In **the** longer pause between words, I hear one fan yell “I love Helmut Kohl!” I wonder what kind of man **the** Chancellor is.  
“He stays asleep a lot…” MacPhisto murmurs, speaking lines that aren’t in **the** script. “I like that in a man. Shall we give him a telephone call?”   
**The** audience’s response is enough assurance, and MacPhisto moves over to **the** phone. “He likes his pop stars to be exciting, too. That’s why I bought these,” he adds, displaying his platform boots. Pride swells over me. “Shall I tell him all about it, then? I think I have his telephone number.”   
As MacPhisto dials, he shares **the** number **with** his audience- “That’s zero, two-two-eight, five-six-zero.” I make a mental note to ask Bono where he gets these phone numbers. We wait together, collectively holding our breath and cheering MacPhisto on when he looks at **the** crowd.  
“Bundeskanzler.” A woman’s voice picks up **the** other end.   
“Hello, I’d like to speak to He- **the** Chancellor Helmut Kohl, please,” MacPhisto answers, forgetting for a moment that he’s supposed to use titles. But why shouldn’t he call **the** Chancellor by name? Mr. MacPhisto is higher in rank, technically…  
“Es geht leider nicht,” responds **the** woman. **The** only word I can understand is something about **the** night…  
“Hello, could you help me?” MacPhisto pleads. “I speak English.” I wonder if his insistence on using his native tongue is because Bono is crap at learning languages. I’ll have to ask him about that, too…  
 **The** woman complies. “A little bit, one moment.” MacPhisto expresses his gratitude- “Thank you very much, you’re so very kind.” Now I have to wait **with** **the** supportive audience to find out if **the** Chancellor is in. I’m betting on him not answering- it’s not like **the** reliable taxi service.  
A new voice picks up on **the** other end, a male’s voice. “Ja… Hallo?” Is that Mr. Kohl?  
“Hello. My name is Mr. MacPhisto, and I’d like to speak to Helmut Kohl, please.” His finger strokes **the** shiny surface of **the** phone as his eyes burn, intent.  
Unfortunately Kohl’s gotten an undereducated secretary. “Oh, Helmut Kohl is- er, is not- er, office.”  
“He’s not available?” MacPhisto is mildly surprised.  
“No… Helmut Kohl is not in **the** office.” I can imagine his relief at getting **the** phrase right.  
“He’s not in **the** office.” It’s a statement now. MacPhisto is disappointed- I can almost taste it. **The** secretary tells him no, he is not.  
But of course, we’ve discussed what will happen if **the** Chancellor doesn’t pick up. This time Bono came up **with** **the** idea; I barely had to help him at all. Wheels turn in MacPhisto’s head. “I see. I… I had that feeling. Um… tell me, could I leave him a message?”  
 **The** secretary is taken aback. “Message? Wh-what is, er, your office?”   
MacPhisto continues **with** **the** message Bono has scripted. “My name is MacPhisto, and I’d like to thank him for letting me back into **the** country!”   
This gets a big cheer from **the** crowd and I mouth “YES!” to MacPhisto.  
However, **the** secretary hasn’t followed along as well. “No. We, er- you, you telephone, er… Monday… er…”   
I know that won’t stop MacPhisto, who replies “No.”   
“8 o’clock…” **the** secretary murmurs.  
“I’m- I’d like to leave it **with** you. Is that all right?”   
**The** secretary is very much confused. I feel sorry for him. “Uh? Er… uhhh- oh! I have, er, telephone… er… Okay, thank you.” He cuts **the** line off and I can imagine his relief that _that’s_ over.  
MacPhisto, of course, is amused. “You’re a very kind gentleman. I haven’t been here for a while, but I’m back! I’M BAAAACK!”  
And I stay in **the** wings for Ultraviolet.  
                                               ***  
We drive to Stuttgart, Germany **the** next day. **The** sixth of June, which is tomorrow, is **the** next concert. Once again, I meet **with** Bono in his hotel room, ready to do some writing.  
“Hello…”   
“Marieke! Hello.”  
“How are you? What have you written?”  
“I’m good, but I haven’t written much. I was waiting for you! How’d you like **the** Munich show?”  
“It was great! You played Sunday Bloody Sunday!”  
A sort of laugh- “We did. Is that a favorite of yours?”  
“I love everything from War! New Year’s Day is in fact my favorite song.”  
“You haven’t told me that before, it’s good to hear from you.”  
“Then hear from me now. Let’s get to work!”  
“Alright already!”  
“Have you got an idea of who to call?”  
“How do you feel about trying for **the** Chancellor again?”  
“Why?”  
“It’s logical that if MacPhisto hasn’t reached him yet, he will try again. I mean, all **the** bets are on that secretary to pass **the** message along, and we know he will have forgotten. MacPhisto wants to thank Helmut Kohl and he wants to be certain about it.”  
“I see. Can you get me some paper?”  
“Certainly…”  
A pause.  
“What do you want him to say?”  
“Well, let’s start **with** **the** basics. Thank you, thank you! Do you know who I am? Because I know who you are, probably even better than you know yourself-“  
“STOP!”  
“Yes?”  
“You didn’t use off **with** **the** horns, on **with** **the** show?”  
“I thought you didn’t want all **the** catchphrases at once?”  
“But I _like_ that one.”  
“It is an easy one to begin **with** , but I’m open to experimenting.”  
“Okay… Experimenting is good?”  
“Yes. Always. I’d like to try a new phrase, too. I’ve never used it in concert, so tell me what you think.”  
“Go on”  
“Do you like your pop stars to be exciting- oh no you don’t, Marieke! Em… that’s why I bought these. Last time you saw me I was 5 feet 8 and carrying a white flag. Now look at me- I’m gigantic!”  
       Hysterical laughter.  
       “I take it that’s a hit?”  
       “Yes, of course! How tall is that?”  
       “I’m roughly… 1 meter and 20 centimeters tall, I think that’s right.”  
       “You’re short.”  
 _“Short?_ Well _you_ know how to offend a man. Imagine me wearing those shoes, though.”  
       “They do increase your height… but when you tell **the** Germans how tall you really are, you should use meters. They might not understand feet.”  
       “Better for them, then. I don’t want to be teased by fans **the** rest of **the** night. So, **the** line’s a keeper?”  
     “Yes. I like it very much. Anyway, can I ask something?”  
     “What is it?”  
       “How do you get **the** phone numbers? Do you really know these people?”  
       “I should have known you’d ask that sometime or another…”  
       “Well, HOW?!”  
       “When you’re famous, everyone gives you their telephone number!”  
       “M- I’m not falling for that.”  
         A sigh. “They’re really not hard numbers to find. Let’s get back on track. I’ll introduce my goal to **the** audience-”  
       “Like at **the** last show, when you introduced **the** Chancellor? Everyone knows who he is. You don’t need to ask them if they do.”  
       “Picky today, aren’t you? I’m sorry, Marieke, but I’m not cutting that out.”  
       “Well… God, why don’t you just use **the** same script from last show? You don’t need me at all.”  
       “Marieke… Marieke, I do need you. No, don’t-“  
       “Goodbye.”  
“Hey…!”  
A pause.  
“Marieke, come back! I need you here to write this script. You think of so many things I would never notice… and you know **the** character better than I do myself. Please.”  
A pause.  
“I mean it. Use **the** same script. It’s **the** same person. Just remember to put in **the** special line.”  
“No… and I mean it too, Marieke, when I tell you to stay. Come back and we’ll continue this.”  
A pause.  
“Last show, when MacPhisto said **the** Chancellor stays asleep a lot? Why did you add that?”  
“Oh, because it was late at night, and it at least gave **the** Chancellor an excuse for not answering **the** phone.”  
“I think I can add something to that. Let me see...”  
***  
 **The** show arrives before I know it, and I sit backstage to watch. U2 is playing a tune called Redemption Song, a tune they played a few days past in Munich. I have a feeling I know what’s coming next. It’s not going to Bad this time… But I’m not prepared for Bono’s murmur of “For Marieke!” before **the** band launches into Sunday Bloody Sunday.  
Did he really say my name? He did, didn’t he? It had to be me. Those words could mean nothing else. Bono dedicated Sunday Bloody Sunday just for me? Why? Because I told him I like it?  
“And **the** battle’s just begun… there’s many lost but tell me, who has won?”  
 **The** encore flies in and Bono enters **the** dressing room. He returns as MacPhisto, platform shoes, lipstick, and horns in all. I feel like taking his arm and escorting him out to **the** stage, but clearly he doesn’t need my help. MacPhisto rushes out, happily calling, “Honey, I’m home!”  
I watch Desire from a safe distance. MacPhisto is wild. He sings **with** all his heart. Now **the** craze is settling down, and he claps his hands over his head as **the** German crowd screams for more.  
“Thank you very much,” he begins, a smile lighting up his face. “Do you know who I am? Probably even better than you know yourself.” He uses some of my new phrasing. “Do you like your pop stars to be exciting?”   
The crowd replies with a loud “YEAH!”  
“That’s why I bought these,” MacPhisto says, and holds his leg out. “The last time I was here, I was five feet eight and carrying a white flag. Now look at me- I’m gigantic.”   
I knew I’d be able to count on MacPhisto.  
He starts in on the Bono-penned script. “Do you know who Helmut Kohl is? He’s becoming a friend of mine, actually… He’s let me back into the country! Shall I give him a telephone call?”   
The audience lets him know that they’d like that more than anything. At least that’s what I derive from the sound level.  
MacPhisto walks towards the phone in the back, murmuring my written words- “I’m not sure if it’s just Sunday that he keeps his day of rest.” That is our excuse to fall back on when the Chancellor doesn’t pick up.  
He dials and then speaks some mysterious words- “It’s so hot in Germany, just like home.” That wasn’t something we planned… I am very hot tonight, but what does he mean by home? Dublin?  
“Bundeskanzler,” the woman from the night before answers.  
“Hello, I’d like to speak to Mr. Helmut Kohl, please,” MacPhisto replies, dismissing the title of Chancellor.  
“One moment please,” is her remote answer. She’s still in good graces with us, I see.  
MacPhisto is clearly pleased. “Thank you very much.” The woman repeats her statement, and MacPhisto tells her, “You’re so very kind.” I wish he would lavish that much attention on me.  
Instead of talking with the crowd, MacPhisto plasters his intent expression onto his face. I would have preferred scripting some dialogue, but Bono insisted that the wait wouldn’t be long. He was right- a man quickly picks up on the other end.  
“Hello. My name is Mr. MacPhisto and I’d like to speak with the Chancellor.”  
The secretary stutters as he did the night prior to this one. “Erm… no, er, erm. Bundeskanzler Kohl is not in, er- in his office.” I now realize that “bundeskanzler” is a title.  
The crowd laughs in response to this, and the man continues, trying to be sharp- “Call tomorrow… Monday mor-morning, is, er, Bundeskanzler Kohl here, in, er, office.”   
Poor thing. I know exactly how he feels, trying to speak English with little experience. MacPhisto’s tone does not grow any warmer though. “Well, I… could-could I leave a message, then?”   
“A message?” is the blank answer.  
“Yes, please.”  
       The secretary’s reply has both me and the audience cracking up. “Er, I speak not English.”   
       MacPhisto is hell-bent on getting his sentiments through. “Um, I’d just like to leave a messa- I’d like to say to Mr. Kohl- thank you for letting me back into the country!”   
       The flustered secretary continues, “I don’t know… I speak, I speak not English…”  
       Oblivious to his ramblings, MacPhisto shouts at the top of his voice, “I’M BACK… I’M BACK!”   
       The churning effects at the beginning of Ultraviolet begin and steal my voice. MacPhisto sings the first lines down the phone. “Sometimes I feel like checking out, sometimes I feel-“ Suddenly he realizes that these are not the right words. “Get it wrong… want to get along… can’t always be strong… strong…” Edge’s guitar seems to be having troubles. He looks frustrated when    MacPhisto sings over, stalling for time. Finally the riff is shaking out, and the crowd is pumped.  
       “Off with the horns, on with the show!”   
       I can’t wait for the next concert.  
                                           ***  
       And it comes soon enough. On June 7th, we stop in Bremen, Germany, and I make plans **with** Bono to meet right after lunch to write **the** call, so we won’t have to worry about it **the** rest of **the** day.  
“Hello-“  
A pause.  
“You do? … Mm-hmm. That’s great. Okay… I’ll see you when I can. Love you guys… miss you. Goodbye!”  
“Who was that?”  
“Those were my daughters. Ali called… she put Jordan on **the** line.”  
“Oh… Does she call often?”  
“Oh, sometimes. Now. Let’s focus on a different phone call!”   
“Bono, can we change something?”   
“What do you mean?”  
“I don’t want to call Helmut Kohl again.”   
“And I don’t want to _stop_ calling Helmut. Remember, MacPhisto still hasn’t gotten through…”   
“But you know as well as I do that he’ll never get through. I’m bored **with** these calls. Let’s move on.”   
“You want to go back to calling taxis every night?”   
“It was easier!”   
“Marieke, I have great dreams for this character Mr. MacPhisto. I want to explore how far he can go. When I was Mirrorball Man I called politicians. This is just like those calls, only I have extra help. We’re in Europe now, and there are so many more opportunities. You’re going to get used to it.”   
“Okay… But I don’t want to waste time writing when you could use **the** same script. **The** fans in Bremen will never know.”  
“I’m not using **the** same script- you’re getting paid to write these, remember!”  
“Can we just call a taxi?”   
“No. I thought… and I’m not sure if you’ll like this, Marieke, but I thought of calling Helmut at every German show unless we get through.”  
“GOD. How much longer will you be in Germany?”   
“We’re only playing two more shows.”   
A groan.  
“Marieke, don’t be like that.”   
“Then how about we connect **the** calls? MacPhisto really wants to make sure he can talk to **the** Chancellor. What a better way to do it than meet in person?”   
“I’m not sure I’m following you.”  
“Why don’t you call a taxi to take you to Helmut Kohl?”   
“Why… how many times do I have to tell you you’re a genius? Considering **the** link you provided us for Zooropa, I’d assume you considered this one.”   
“Oh, Bono. I’m not a genius.”   
“You are in my eyes.”   
A pause.  
“Is something wrong?”  
“No, I’m fine… let’s write this. MacPhisto can say, “He needs me over there! I’m his closest friend!””   
“Aha! You’re getting into **the** humor, aren’t you?”  
“He needs me to put him to sleep at night.”   
“You don’t sound like yourself.”   
“I sound like MacPhisto, don’t I? I was trying to.”   
“I’ve no idea. I… haven’t really listened back to **the** encores.”  
“Too scary?”  
“Too nervous. I don’t want to know I failed.”   
“You never fail, Bono. It always sounds perfect to me.”   
A pause.  
“Did you sing Sunday Bloody Sunday for me?”   
“Yes, I’m glad you caught that.”   
“Why did you do that?”   
“Because you like **the** song. You told me that last time we were writing…”   
A pause.  
“How’s Zooropa going, by **the** way?”   
“PolyGram was surprised when they received it. They weren’t expecting an album this early. Now they’ve got to plan a marketing strategy, and release it quickly. **The** tour won’t last forever.”  
“Too bad.”   
“We’re almost ready to release a single.”   
***  
Bono gets me to sit in a seat near **the** B stage- my only blind spot in GA. Now I can see **the** faces of **the** band perfectly as they Angel of Harlem- a song off another favorite album of mine. Pity that this song and Desire seem to be **the** only constant Rattle And Hum material in **the** set.  
“Soul love, but this love won’t let me go,” Bono sings. He’s relaxed out here, his voice reflecting **the** calm as he strums on his black guitar. I notice that someone’s humorously stuck a sticker to **the** bottom of it that reads I FEEL GOOD. Oh, dear.  
“So long… Angel of Holland,” he finishes, and I snap my head up. Angel of Holland? But.. but that can be no one but me!  
Bono doesn’t face me for **the** rest of **the** performance. As **the** band jams, Bono leans back and turns from **the** microphone, singing **with** **the** German audience- “Angel, angel of Harlem. Angel, angel of Harlem…” Is it my eyes or did Bono slip a few “Angel of Holland’s” into that too?  
“Angel of Harlem,” he ends **the** song, mouth close to **the** mic. As Bono smiles back at **the** audience, he catches my gaze and winks. It lasts for a split second, but it leaves me weak at **the** knees and breathless. Now they return to **the** main stage, and after Redemption Song Larry strikes **the** drums straight into Sunday Bloody Sunday. Bono doesn’t dedicate it to me again, but he does remove his jacket before beginning it, and seeing how much sweat has soaked through his shirt makes my breathing quicken.  
       Thank God I won’t be dressing MacPhisto tonight.  
       Speaking of which, the encores are beginning now. My man walks out of the dressing room with arms waving. I’m so glad I’m a bit too far from the stage, or else I might be having a heart attack.  
       Once Desire is over and MacPhisto is slipping his harmonica back into his pocket, the stage floor littered with dollars, he greets the crowd- “Do you who I am? Because I know who you are. Look what you’ve done to me! You’ve made me very famous, and I thank you.”   
       I should be shouting “PAUSE!” but I know that would make Bono crack up and I don’t want the MacPhisto illusion to be shattered. To my dismay he only carries out part of the new line- “I know you like your pop stars to be exciting, so I bought these. Now look at me, I’m gigantic!”   
       The crowd cheers and whistles. I listen to MacPhisto bring out his goal- “Do you know who Helmut Kohl is?” Actually, yes I do. “Because I’ve got to go and see him now. He needs me, I put him to sleep at night.” I’m glad that we managed to fit the sleep excuse into that line. “Excuse me while I call a taxi. You don’t mind if I call a taxi, do you?” No, not at all… just hoping for more words in your fine voice… “You speak awfully good English.” Why Bono keeps insisting on that line I’ll never know. Maybe one day I’ll remember to ask.  
       By now MacPhisto has lowered his arm and made way for the telephone. He dials, and soon a woman’s voice answers.   
       “Hold on, I’m trying to connect you.”   
       “Hello, my name is Mr. MacPhisto and I’d like to order a taxi…” he breezes on in.  
       “…Ja…” Oops, she’s still talking.  
       “…to…” MacPhisto tries to continue.  
       “Moment, moment…” the receptionist says.  
       MacPhisto waits patiently. “Thank you.”   
       The audience is restless tonight. They shout as MacPhisto stares intently at the phone, waiting on a response. When the response does come it is almost drowned out by the noise they’re making.  
         “Hello,” MacPhisto says, his voice beautiful in every way.  
         “Hello,” a man replies.  
         “I, I’d like to order a taxi, I’d like to go see the Chancellor, Helmut Kohl, please,” MacPhisto suggests.   
       The man is confused. “Kohl? But that’s, er, very far away. It is in Bonn, you know- it, it’s about 600 kilometers.”   
         This seems like an easier man to work with than Kohl’s secretary. MacPhisto takes this advantage and says “I, I don’t mind traveling that far, I really think he needs to see me.”   
         Maybe I misjudged- the man’s grown hostile at these words. “Yeah? Who are you, then? Who are you, what’s your name?”  
       “My name is MacPhisto, and I want to thank the Chancellor for letting me back into the country,” the Devil responds. I noticed this is the first time he hasn’t used his own title of “Mr.” Perhaps I’m rubbing off on him.  
       The man is amiable again- “Oh. No problem. Did you…” I can’t make out his next words- the lines are growing fuzzy.  
       “Would you take me to see him, please?” MacPhisto asks in his to-die-for British accent.  
       “Yes, I can send you a taxi. But it’s very expensive, you know?”   
       “I can afford it…” MacPhisto says thoughtfully. He’s about to continue when the man asks, “Ja? Takes a long time.”   
         “…I’m a very rich pop star!” MacPhisto finishes. Just for that, for his willing to speak my dialogue, thrills overcome me from the tips of my toes to the scalp of my head. A warm wave washes over me.   
       The crowd cheers, and the man laughs. I’m glad that he liked it. Unfortunately, MacPhisto is not happy at being thwarted. He sings.  
       “Sometimes I feel like I don’t know, sometimes I feel like checking out… I wanna get it wrong, can’t always be strong, and love it won’t be long…”   
         He screams.  
         “TAKE ME TO SEE HIM!!”   
                                         ***  
         The 11th of June rolls around and we find ourselves in Cologne, Germany. Once again, I must meet with Bono. It occurs to me that we only ever meet to write nowadays. It saddens me..  
“Hi, Bono.”   
“Hi, Marieke.”  
“I’ve missed you.”  
“I’ve missed you too, love.”   
“Hee… U2…”   
“We’re calling Helmut Kohl again. You know that, right?”  
“I was hoping you wouldn’t bring it up.”   
“Do you want to see my script?”   
“Yes please.”   
“Here you go…”  
A pause.  
“You’ve cut out some catchphrases. I like it.”   
“What do you mean? I’ve kept the same as always.”  
“No “off with the horns” or “I know you.””   
“And that’s a good thing- right?”   
“Yes. I like it better. But what about that special line?”   
“The one mentioning my height? Oh… well, it just didn’t fit to have MacPhisto say that. I want to distance myself from that character as much as possible.”  
“You’re learning. You don’t like MacPhisto?”   
“No… I made him up, of course I like him. But it can get hard… hard to see myself as, well, myself anymore. I’m not Bono. I’m The Fly and it worries me. I’m Mr. MacPhisto. And I don’t want to see myself as them. I don’t want to wake up in the morning and not know who I am.”   
“You’ve forgotten the other character. The one during Bullet The Blue Sky. He’s a person too, _Paul.”_  
“Hey, where’d you learn _that_ name?”  
“I wanted to know your real name and Edge told me. I like it.”  
“Did he tell you his own, then?”   
“No. I’ve been wondering for years.”   
“Well, some things are best kept in the dark, aren’t they?”  
“HEY! Bono, that’s not fair!”   
“Ah-ah-ah. I’m not Bono, remember? I’m _Paul.”_  
“Alright, _Paul,_ let’s get to work on the script.”   
“Please… don’t call me Paul. I hate it.”   
A giggle. “Alright, Bono.”   
A pause.  
“Did you sing Angel of Holland for me?”  
“Yes, you didn’t mind that, did you?”   
“No, not at all! I really liked it. Are you going to sing it for me again?”   
“No, fans might get suspicious. They know I’m singling out someone with those words. But if you don’t mind, Angel of Holland, I think I might call you that from now on.”  
                                               ***  
MacPhisto’s telephone call is not too different from the last shows. I did rearrange the catchphrases and add another one of my favorites, though, while Bono decided which song snippets he was going to sing. At the last second I thought of one last phrase to use, though Bono is unsure he’ll get to say it because it all depends on the secretary’s response.  
So now I’m facing a Devil wrapped in gold, watching him strut about onstage at the end of Desire. As the band plays, eager to finish the song, MacPhisto screams, “I LOVE YOU!”   
He then launches straight into his first planned snippet. “Try a taste of Martini, the most beautiful drink in the world! It’s the right one, it’s the bright one, that’s Martini!” Definitely a better change from Moon River, which must be MacPhisto’s favorite song or something. Personally I don’t care for it.  
“That’s a good one,” MacPhisto tells the crowd. I wonder briefly why Bono’s gotten me a spot in the audience tonight. It’s too dangerous to be this close to the man I love.   
He raises his arm, the one that’s not clutching the microphone. “Look what you’ve done to me. You’ve made me very famous, and to that end, I thank you.” What does “to that end” mean? That wasn’t in the script. “I know you like your pop stars to be exciting, so I bought these. Around about this time of night, I often make a telephone call. Sometimes to the President of the United States. But not tonight. Tonight I’m going to call the Chancellor, Mr. Kohl.”  
We had agreed not to use that phrase anymore if he wasn’t going to call the President! I just know I’m going to smack Bono after the show. Hopefully I’ll be able to pass it off as a love tap.  
“Getting to knoowww you…” MacPhisto sings, wandering over to the telephone.   
The sound of dialing fills the stadium. MacPhisto redeems himself slightly by using my scripted phrase- “When you get very famous, people give you their telephone number.” He looks back to the audience, and I mouth “PAUSE!” to see what he’ll do. MacPhisto catches my “pause” and lifts his eyebrows in mock surprise. His eyes sparkle with humor.  
“Guten Abend, Bundeskanzler,” says the phone. I didn’t know the phone was a female.  
“Hello, I’d like to speak to the Chancellor, Mr. Kohl, please.”  
“One moment please.”   
“Thank you very much.”   
While the line is being transferred, MacPhisto sings joyfully, “La-la-la laaa daaa, da-da-da daaa da-da…” He will not shut up tonight. I suppose when singers are in good voice, they have to show it off to the world.  
A man answers the phone.  
“Hello, excuse me, do you speak a bit of English?” Bono told me that his meaning in this line is to get across that MacPhisto can’t be bothered to learn another language even though he’s on tour in other countries. He considers himself British and wants to stay that way. Of course, it would also help if Bono wasn’t so shit at speaking German. Sure, he knows most of the language, but his pronunciation basically stinks.  
The man- “Yes, a little bit.”  
MacPhisto is feeling thankful tonight. “Thank you, you’re so kind, I, I’d like to speak with the Chancellor, Mr. Kohl, please.”  
In return, the secretary is a bit better prepared for the request. “And who are you?”   
He uses my words now. “My name is MacPhisto, Mr. MacPhisto, and… he’s an old friend of mine, becoming an even closer friend, and I’d like to speak to him, if that’s alright.”  
I can’t help but take pity on MacPhisto. His voice sounds a bit wistful, as if he really is trying to find an old friend. Unfortunately- or is it fortunately, for this is the response we wanted- the secretary replies, “But… do you know what time it, er, is it? Do you know the time?”  
Irritably, MacPhisto snaps the line I came up with- “Yes, I know the time. I know a lot of things!”  
“Mmm,” says the man. “So you know… know at the time it isn’t possible.”   
“Could I leave a message for the Chancellor, then?” MacPhisto begs.  
       At least the man is courteous. “Yes, of course.”   
       MacPhisto sets his sights on the heavens. A smile breaks over his face as he says, “Could you just thank the Chancellor for letting me back into the country? I’m back, I’m back!”   
       He’s back, he’s back!  
       We party all night at the club, and then finally turn in to the hotel. Someone seems to have forgotten to feed us. I ordered a drink at the club, but we haven’t eaten dinner yet- and it is _late._ Hungry and bored, I go to Bono’s suite to see if he’ll get me something. Eric follows me- we haven’t hung out in a while- and some other crew members take this as an incentive to congregate in the suite. Bono is surprised, but he doesn’t have any food. We agree to order something from the downstairs kitchen.  
       The clock slowly ticks to 3, and the order hasn’t yet arrived. Funny, I hadn’t noticed how incredibly late we’ve stayed up. Most of the crew has given up hope by now that they’ll get fed, and some have departed to go hit a restaurant. Some crew members are calling the kitchen downstairs every few interval. Every time the call ends, the answer from the kitchen staff is “Ten minutes.”  
       “YARGH!” I shout, and flop down on Bono’s bed.  
       “Ow,” says Eric’s voice from beneath me.  
       “Get up,” I mutter to him, and he rolls off the bed and hovers over me.  
       “Are you alright?”  
       “I’m STARVING!” I shriek. I know I’m being bitchy by complaining about it, but why can’t the food hurry up?  
       Bono glances over at me with an unusual look in his eye. The next I know he’s grabbed the phone.  
“Hello! This is Mr. MacPhisto. I ordered French fries and sandwiches an hour and a half ago and if I don’t get them I will…” He mumbles a string of words into the receiver, all in his false British accent, all in a menacing tone, and none in a language I’ve heard before.  
“That’ll do, then,” he murmurs as he puts the phone back in its cradle. “Don’t worry, help is on the way!”   
Within minutes the hotel staff has come to the suite with multiple trays of French fries. It’s not a complete dinner, but it’s enough to tide us over till tomorrow. I heave myself off the bed and chow down like there’s no tomorrow.  
“Fecking room service,” Jack grumbles, looking peeved that he hadn’t gone to a restaurant while he still could.  
Bono beams at me. “There’s one phone call you didn’t need to script.”  
“They probably spit on them,” Bill whispers to Bono. His head and mine both nod in assent.  
“Say, why’d you all come in _here_ anyway?”  
“Hotel room partay?” Eric suggests, an impish grin on his face.  
I haul a pillow off the bed and chuck it at him. He laughs- “See, we’re halfway there. Pillow fight!”   
No one joins us.  
***  
We arrive in Berlin on the 14th. This is my last writing session in Germany, and I decide to make the best of it.   
“Hey, Bono.”   
“The Angel of Holland is at my doorstep… it’s great to see you, Marieke! Are you pumped to finally finish with these Kohl calls?”   
“Yeah! I can’t wait until we have written the last one.”  
“Then let’s write it now!”   
“Good. I’ve started a script.”  
A pause.  
“This is really good, love! How did you manage it?”  
“Geniuses can do anything.”  
“Oh…”  
“Do you like **the** bit about **the** taxi? I fit it in because I was thinking about how MacPhisto called **the** taxi service that one night because I was bored.”  
“I think it’s just brilliant. Thank you. This is a way to leave Germany **with** a bang!”   
“Somehow I don’t think they’ll even answer **the** phone. They’ll know it’s MacPhisto this time.”  
“So he’ll just threaten them. Hello, Helmut? You know I’m here! I don’t need telephone lines! I’m coming to you, because I’m BAACK! Can you feel it? I’M BAAAACK!”  
“Ah, Bono! I love it!”   
“Improv is **the** only way to go sometimes, Angel.”  
“Improv?”  
“Improvisation. Don’t worry about it.”  
“Then we don’t need to write a thing.”  
“That’s right, we don’t! I’ve done my fair share of writing in Berlin before anyway… in 1990…”  
“What were you writing?”  
“Trying to write Achtung Baby, but you see, we didn’t get very far along on it.”  
“But you made it in **the** end soon. You’ve given me **the** world’s finest album, and for that I thank you!”  
A laugh. “Angel of Holland, I think I love you.”  
A pause.  
“Alright then.”  
“Let’s show this script to **the** band.”  
***  
Bono has seated me near **the** B stage tonight, and I am still puzzling over his words- _I think I love you…_ Surely he can’t mean **the** way I love him. I didn’t dare ask. Oh, Bono, why must you be so confusing? If only I could read his mind…  
Of course, if Bono rejects me I can always take my first love. He’s standing onstage, crying “Look what you’ve done to me. Look what you’ve done to me! You’ve made me very famous, and I thank you. I know you like your pop stars to be exciting, so I bought these.” He shows off his sparkly shoes, familiar to me by now. “The last time you saw me I was 5 feet 8. Now look at me, I’m gigantic.”   
     The crowd rumbles appreciatively. I want to leap up and hug MacPhisto. He looks so happy tonight.   
       “Do you know who Helmut Kohl is? He’s becoming a friend of mine. Shall I give him a telephone call?”  
       “YEAH!” we cheer. From in front of me I hear someone yell, “Do it, baby!” It makes me smile- those crazy Germans!  
       MacPhisto grins too, his ruby red lips pulling up, and says “I love this place. All the pomp and ceremony and marching, it gets so loud… don’t you love that?”   
       He turns and dials the phone one last time.  
       “When you’re famous, people get you their telephone number.”  
     We wait, and all that happens is a tone telling us that the line is engaged.  
       MacPhisto is amused. “Ahahahahaaa!” he laughs. “Maybe I should call a taxi!” The script is working out even better than I’d hoped.  
     The crowd is angry at the prospect of MacPhisto leaving us, and boos.   
       “I wonder, I think I have offended the Chancellor!” MacPhisto leans in, his eyes smoldering into the phone. “Hello?” he growls menacingly. “Can you hear me, Helmut Kohl? I don’t need the telephone lines! You know who I am! And I want to thank you… for letting me back… into the country! I’m BAAAAAACK!!”  
     Ultraviolet grinds its way into town.  
     “I’m baaaaaack!”   
       Edge begins the riff and I begin my nightly emotional journey. It’s comforting to be in the crowd and know that I am not alone in my emotions. But still, this is getting a little ridiculous. I’ve seen Ultraviolet, With or Without You, Love Is Blindness how many times now… and yet I still get choked up watching them.  
       I calm myself by thinking of Bono. He, as MacPhisto, has to perform these songs night after night. It can’t be an easy task at all. If this is what it does to those listening, imagine how those singing must feel. No wonder MacPhisto always looks so heartbroken…  
     “Yeah, we’ll shine like stars in the summer night! We’ll shine like stars in the winter light! One heart, one hope, one love… with or without you.” The guitar’s piercing notes, absent on the album version, rip me apart.  
     “Love is blindness, I don’t wanna see… won’t you wrap the night around me? Take my heart… love is blindness.”   
     I should be in pain, and yet all I can think of is how _close_ he is. Every night MacPhisto gravitates towards the B stage for this song. I can see each expansion of his chest as he takes another breath, each individual bead of sweat on his forehead. And I can hear… I can hear the heart-wrenching sadness in his voice… and I can hear Edge kicking into the solo… and I can feel MacPhisto’s hands touch on mine, and feel my body get up and collide into his on the B stage, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be but his arms.  
     He spins me around, and I slide my slender arms under his jacket, touching his body beneath thin fabric. I skid my hand across his chest, and he doesn’t restrain me. Before I can sink into the pleasure, a twinge of worry crosses my mind. Why isn’t Bono taking over and locking his grip on my arms? For God’s sake, I could get my hands down his pants and he wouldn’t do anything.  
       “Bono?” I whisper.  
       His eyes are glazed. He’s looking over my shoulder.  
       “Bono?”   
       Edge’s solo is over. MacPhisto takes the mic. He rocks me in his arms and ends the song quietly.  
       “Love is blindness, I don’t wanna see. Won’t you wrap the night around me? Take my heart…” He’s too weary to finish the verse, and just murmurs, “Blindness,” into the microphone.  
       I start to pull away and his hands stroke my hip. He darts in and presses a scorching kiss to my cheek, no doubt leaving a red mark there. Then he lets me go and claps my back as I jump into the audience.  
       “I can’t help falling in love with you…”


	21. Chapter 21

     My body is still shaking by the time I reach backstage. I swear MacPhisto’s kiss is still imprinted on my cheek. I push through the crewmen backstage and knock on Bono’s dressing room door. He presently opens it and I stride in with a backward glance, making sure no one is following me in.  
       “Hey,” I say.  
       “Good to see you, Angel,” he answers. By now Bono has transformed back into himself- exchanged his red and gold suit for a more sensible attire of gray and black- but his body hasn’t recovered from the performance, and neither has mine. He’s still sweating from being under the bright lights, and his eyes are wide and wild. I notice that he hasn’t taken out MacPhisto’s earring or removed his ponytail, which makes me foolishly happy.  
     I close the space between us and lay my hand on his arm. It’s not fair for someone to be so irresistible-I can’t stop touching the man. The area I’ve positioned my fingers is right between his wrist and the beginning of his sleeve. I gently stroke Bono’s arm hair, feeling a tremor run over his skin.  
       “Marieke.”   
       “What?”  
       “You’re a little too… close for my comfort.”  
       Shame bites into me, and I pull away and search Bono’s blue eyes. He drags a hand along his face.  
     “Do you get tired after a show?” I ask. “How do you sing those songs- Love is Blindness, With or Without You… every night?”   
       Bono eyes me, and then glances down at his arm, looking at the exact place I’ve touched it. I wonder if he can feel the electricity too, or if he’s thinking of something else.  
       “It’s hard,” he admits. “Those are some pretty powerful songs we’ve written. With or Without You is the worst. I’ve seen you out there each night in tears… it’s amazing to look out and realize, these people are feeling your emotions. We are all one and the same in the music.” He smiles at his unintentional lyrics reference. “Something resonates. It’s hard to get down from that high when you leave the stage.”  
     “Being a character helps you, doesn’t it? Like The Fly or MacPhisto?”  
       “Well… Yes. It’s… it’s quite frightening, almost, playing someone else. The lines between, say, MacPhisto and I become blurred. I don’t know if it’s the dark side in me that I’m revealing, or the good side in him?... But to sing is to take away **t** he pain. So instead of dealing with it myself I saddle it to a character of mine, because it’s easier that way.”  
       “And it’s not your pain anymore,” I say. It never was to begin **with** , either. MacPhisto’s dilemma is one of a kind. Funny, but it seems the song With or Without You was written for **the** man, even though surely he wasn’t conceived during **the** time of Bono’s writing.  
Bono looks like he’s about to say something, but starts at a knock on **the** door.  
       “Hey Bono, let us in,” Adam calls from outside. “We’re lonely!”  
“Coming.” He sighs and makes a move _away_ from **the** door. “Angel of Holland, before you go I have something to give you.”  
I stare at him **with** wide eyes. “What?” It’s not going to be payment for my speech, so what does Bono mean?  
       He bends over and picks something off **the** floor- it’s a long white case, **the** size of a record. Suddenly I have my suspicions.  
       Bono gives me **the** gift **with** a smile and opens **the** door. Adam, Edge, and Larry come tumbling in.  
       “What are we doing tonight? Been days since I went to a good party.” Adam lights a cigarette, and I tear away from my preoccupation with the record to glare at him. Doesn’t he know that that smoke smells awful?  
       “We’ll not disappoint,” Bono ensures him. “And maybe you can find someone to take home **with** you.”  
Adam looks hurt that Bono even suggested that. “I’m not single anymore.”  
“Doesn’t mean you can’t cheat,” Larry says, receiving a glare from Adam.  
I wave Edge over **with** a smile from ear to ear. “Look what Bono gave me!”  
Someone’s scrawled words on **the** back of **the** record in black marker. It’s hard to make out **the** words in Bono’s indecipherable handwriting, but **with** Edge’s help I read **the** tracklisting:  
 _1.Zooropa I & Zooropa II_  
 _2.Babyface_  
 _3.Numb_  
 _4.Lemon_  
 _5.Stay (Faraway, So Close)_  
 _6.Daddy’s Gonna Pay For Your Crashed Car_  
 _7.Some Days Are Better Than Others_  
 _8. **The** First Time_  
 _9.Dirty Day_  
 _10. **The** Wanderer_  
“Why is Babble-Zooropa now called Zooropa I and II?” I ask.  
“Because it felt too obvious to use “babble,”” Bono answers me.  
I hug **the** album to my chest. “This is **the** first copy?”  
“Yeah, we haven’t even released it yet,” Edge says. “This is a present from **the** whole band, Marieke. We knew you would be **the** first one interested.”  
“You’re right; I can’t wait to play it!”  
“You’re welcome,” Edge says **with** eyebrows raised. He laughs as I hug him and **the** rest of **the** band. Adam is eager to receive my embrace, and Bono squeezes me as tightly as he did on stage tonight. Larry’s arms are reserved, as if he’d like to distance himself from me. I muse on that a little, but not for long.  
“Let’s go out!” Bono exclaims. If he was a child, he would be jumping up and down.  
“Let’s go to **the** overground,” Edge says, and, laughing, **the** other band members give their assent.  
“Are you coming **with** us, Angel of Holland?” Bono asks me. I internally debate whether I want to go back to **the** hotel and enjoy my new album or follow **the** band to a club. **The** latter seems more preferable- delayed gratification makes everything sweeter.  
So we leave, a rowdily sung song filling **the** spaces between us- “And I have no compass, and I have no map. And I have no reason, no reason to get back!” I laugh and try to join in- they obviously know **the** words better than I do- as Bono shouts “Let’s go to **the** overground! Get your head out of **the** mud, baby!” It’s an interesting choice for tonight’s soundtrack, but it’ll do.  
       Later at the German club, Bono pushes through the dancers grooving it up on the floor to reach me, his face soaked in sweat. I’m sitting alone at the bar, enjoying my first and only drink for the night, and welcome his arrival. Edge comes a moment after and orders a drink. His eyes are whirling.  
       Bono’s particularly jovial and kids around with the bartender in his version of German. I choose to wait for him to settle down before talking to him, and strike up a conversation with Edge instead. The guitarist has taken his hair out of a ponytail and it falls to his shoulders. Mine, on the other hand, is tumbling down my back.  
“You got to be the girl on stage tonight, Marieke,” he points out. I roll my eyes and say, “It’s the second time for me.”  
“So it is,” Edge agrees, remembering. “I guess it’s hardly fair that Bono chose you tonight…”   
“They don’t need MacPhisto,” I mutter, seeing girls in the Devil’s arms in my mind’s eye with a reddish sort of tint.  
“Why does he dance with them?”  
Edge peers at Bono before continuing. The singer is still chatting it up with the bartender. It doesn’t seem likely that he’ll notice us. Edge answers my question- “I think it’s a way of expressing what he feels for the crowd- or rather what MacPhisto feels, in this case. Bono loves the fans’ attention and it’s kind of a way of giving back to them.”  
“But it separates them,” I point out. “Every female fan will go home mad that they weren’t pulled up.” Unless they had no chance, of course.  
“It’s not my bright idea,” Edge says, and glances fondly over at Bono. The singer becomes aware that we were talking about him, and says “Hey Edge, who asked you?”  
“No one,” Edge answers, smiling a little because we both know that Bono has no clue what we were discussing. Bono shrugs. “Let’s go dance, Angel!” I hop out of the seat, a generous smile on my face.  
“You’re still married; don’t go too far with Marieke now!” Edge warns, half-joking.  
Bono gives him a dirty look. “And you, my friend, are still single. Here, take Marieke, why don’t you.” He nudges me towards Edge, who doesn’t seem all too eager to dance.  
I wrap my arms around Edge and we move to the beat of the music. He’s an easier partner to swing with than Bono. I wonder briefly if I can catch Bono’s attention by showing off our dancing skills. Maybe he’ll grow envious and take me back.  
“You’re single?” I ask Edge to spark conversation again. A mischievous fantasy of pairing him and Lina together rises in my brain.  
He sighs. “Yeah, I parted with my wife two… three years ago… that wasn’t easy, let me tell you.” He gazes over my shoulder at something I can’t see.  
Suddenly feeling embarrassed that I even brought it up, I try to move the topic off Edge’s separation. “You’re friends with Morleigh, right? How do you think of her?”  
“Well, first of all, you mean to say “what,”” he laughs. “And she’s gorgeous. She was brave to join the tour where she only knew a few of the people working for us, and now she finally feels more comfortable with tour life. I do love to spend time with her. It’s quite a change from hanging with the band.”  
He speaks about Morleigh with slight reverence, and I pray for great things between the two of them. We spin back by the bar, and I catch sight of Bono’s handsome face before the throng of people closes in around us. I slip my hands into Edge’s back pockets.  
His hazel eyes stare down into mine as we sway. “I’ve got curls like her,” I hear myself telling him.  
His gaze softens around the edges. “Yes, you do indeed,” he remarks, and tweaks my hair. I smile broadly, moving my hips and hoping Bono is watching. I steer him closer to the bar.  
“Can you kiss me?” I ask when Bono’s face is in view.   
Edge looks puzzled. “What are you talking about?”  
Bono’s eyes are burning blue flames of holes into me. “Just do it,” I mutter, shoving my hands even further down in his pockets.  
Still brilliantly confused, Edge gives me a peck on the cheek.  
The song booming over the speakers ends, and I pull away from Edge. His hands curl around my arms, as gentle with me as he would be to a guitar, and release me. I’m almost afraid to look over at Bono.  
I don’t have to do that. Hands clap my shoulders, and an Irish voice blurs into my ears, “Getting it on with the Angel, are you, The Edge? I knew you’d find someone tonight!”  
“Let’s not tell Lina about this, alright Marieke?” Edge murmurs. Though it’s a joke, his face is apologetic.  
I nod and twist to look at Bono. His mouth is curved upward, hands pushing his sloppy black hair away from his face. I spy no trace of jealousy of any kind in his happy expression.  
“Let’s get the DJ to spin our record!” he suggests, laughing.  
I mouth _Tipsy?_ to Edge, who agrees with a nod of his head. I don’t see any harm in playing Zooropa, though, so I go to the bar and look under the chair where I’ve set it down.   
Bono’s expression grows worried. “You haven’t lost it, have you? Tell me you haven’t lost it!”   
I successfully locate it under the bar and hold it up to Bono. “Here you go.”  
He exhales. “Thank God. Maybe the public isn’t ready for it yet.”  
“The album’s name is Zooropa, right?” I ask.  
“No. It’s called The New LP. Why do you _think_ we’ve been referring to it as that?”  
“Stop being silly,” I mutter. “Edge?”   
Edge puts his arm around Bono. “Yeah, I’ve told you that before, haven’t I? The album is called Zooropa.” He dips his head, murmuring, “So much for Squeaky, then…”  
“I don’t like that name,” I groan.  
“Well, I do rather like the line in Zooropa that it comes from. How does it go, Bono?” Edge looks at him.  
Without any more prompting, Bono sings “We’re mild and green and squeaky clean!”   
“See, that’s the one,” Edge says.  
I lift one delicate eyebrow. “Bono, I have a proposition for you.”  
“What is it, love?”  
“Why don’t you just call Zooropa I & II Zooropa?”  
He lifts his own eyebrow at me, impressed. “That, my Angel, is an extraordinary idea.”  
                                       ***  
In the morning I am unhappily uprooted from Berlin and shoved onto a plane headed for Strasbourg, France. I scowl at the leather of the seat in front of me and try to ignore Eric’s chatter, without much luck. But I LIKED Berlin…  
“But Strasbourg is beautiful,” Eric answers, his face alight. “It’s… oh, I don’t know. There’s no way to describe this city. And they have the best food!”  
“Did I say that out loud?” I murmur, reaching beneath my feet. The coolness of the record case hits my fingers pleasantly, and I grin silently.  
“What’s that you have, Marieke?” Eric asks.  
“Look, Eric.” I show him the back of the album. “Bono gave me a record.”   
He reads the words out loud, squinting through Bono’s handwriting. “Zooropa… Babyface… Numb… Lemon… God, Marieke, is this what I think it is?!”  
“It is,” I say. “It’s the new album. Zooropa.”  
Eric sits back hard and runs his fingers through his rusty hair. “God!”  
My thoughts exactly.  
       Once we get to Strasbourg, I take my hotel room keys quickly and scan for some kind of turntable in my room. Of course, the owners of the hotel didn’t factor in my need for music, or anyone else’s for that matter. I go downstairs clutching the record in both hands and sort my way through the mass of entourage to ask the hotel worker behind the desk if he knows where I can find a record player. It takes a few tries, but I finally understand that there is a turntable in the hotel lobby- the man points it out to me, and my head nods- but I’ll have to wait for everyone to leave before I can play my album.  
       I decide it’s not a bad idea to get some rest. Strasbourg and Berlin are not separated by time, and yet I feel exhausted. I stretch out on the bed in my room and call my parents. They’re delighted to hear my tales of touring with U2, and we finish our chat with a request from my mother to ask if I can go home for a few days. That’s not a bad idea.   
       My snooze is cut short by Eric knocking at my door. With a jolt, I realize it’s dinnertime. I join him and the usual group and we go out to eat. All the time I’m itching to be back at the hotel where I can play Zooropa.  
       When we return, I say goodnight to Eric who hugs me and goes up to his room- maybe to recover from the fun we had tonight. I myself only stop by my room for a few minutes, and leave with U2’s album. Locking the door behind me, I ride the elevator down to the lobby and ask the receptionist if I can play music now. He smiles and answers in French, which I understand to be a go-ahead.  
I carefully set the needle on the record and watch it spin. Slowly but surely, the babble fills the air. I sit down in a chair close to the turntable and wrap my arms around myself as Zooropa begins.  
 _She’s gonna dream of the world she wants to live in_  
 _She’s gonna dream out loud_  
 _Dream out loud_  
 _Dream out loud_  
     Without hearing any of the other songs, I can tell that this is going to be the best the album has to offer. Already my current favorite song, New Year’s Day, has stepped down a notch for this anthem to take place.  
       And now a chiming sound like bells comes in, announcing the next song. I flip over the album cover- Babyface. The vocals are layered in two, and I gasp at how the lyrics sound-  
 _Watching your bright blue eyes in the freeze frame_  
 _I’ve seen them so many times I feel like I must be your best friend_  
     The lyrics kind of screw off from there, but I can’t get over the simple accuracy of the first two lines. It sounds exactly like me and Bono- how I’d watch interviews, music videos, and the _Rattle And Hum_ movie to catch a glimpse of those blue eyes and learn what the band was doing now. And I have blue eyes myself…   
       After that, a fractured guitar cuts in. It plays up and down notes before cutting to the lyrics- _Don’t move don’t talk out of time don’t think don’t worry everything’s just fine…_ The voice sounds slightly off, and I realize it’s not Bono singing. Or in this case, chanting. I guess that it must be Edge on lead vocals- he has such a strange voice in this song! It bores me numb. Oh, that’s funny- the song is actually called Numb. All the weird noises in the background assault me in a bad way, unlike the intro to Zooropa.  
       Once the annoying song is over- good grief, I thought that would never end- there’s a pause, and now four beats are hit. An odd, synthesized sound comes in, something glittery, almost rainbow colored in my mind. A bassline comes thumping in subtly, and someone sings in falsetto. The shimmery song has caught my full attention. This is going to be good.  
 _Lemon_  
 _See through in **the** sunlight_  
 _She wore lemon_  
 _But never in **the** daylight_  
 _She’s gonna make you cry_  
 _She’s gonna make you whisper and moan_  
 _And when you’re dry_  
 _She draws **the** water from **the** stone_  
I’ve never heard a song sung entirely in falsetto, by U2 or by anyone else. I like **the** song in a weird sort of way. It doesn’t make much sense, but then again, it doesn’t need to. **The** music is lonely, tugging at something within me.  
 _And I feel like I’m drifting, drifting, drifting from **the** shore_  
 _And I feel like I’m swimming out to her_  
 _Midnight is where **the** day begins_  
 _Midnight is where **the** day begins_  
 _Midnight is where **the** day begins_  
 _Midnight is where **the** day begins_  
Oh, is that so now? I could have told you that. But **the** words are sung so hauntingly, calmingly, that it takes me a minute to realize how obvious **the** lyrics are.  
 **The** song puts my soul at rest, and pleasantly fades out **with** _She is **the** dreamer… she’s imagination… she wore lemon…_  
I wonder how Bono would react if I wore yellow tomorrow.  
Then comes Stay, **the** song I chose for **the** fifth track. It pulls at my heart **with** **the** grief-ridden lyrics. I can tell I’m going to spend a lot more time playing this, and hang on to every word.  
When **the** song is over, I go to flip **the** record onto its second side. I note gladly that everyone in **the** lobby seems to be listening intently. I set **the** needle down gently, and a fanfare begins.  
 _You’re a precious stone_  
 _You’re out on your own_  
 _You know everyone in **the** world_  
 _But you feel alone_  
In my mind’s eye, a strange bombardment of images arrives- Bono dressed in MacPhisto attire, prowling around **the** stage singing this song. I check **the** title- Daddy’s Gonna Pay For Your Crashed Car, a name **with** a hint of mystery and malice. Suddenly I know that MacPhisto has got to sing it live.  
 **The** next track is called Some Days Are Better Than Others, and it barely makes an impression on me. This is partly because I don’t like **the** words. But **the** bassline’s nice, you have to give it that.  
Now a piano rises and falls, softly fading in **the** next song. I’m not sure what I was prepared for next, but this wasn’t it.  
 _I have a lover_  
 _A lover like no other_  
 _She got soul, soul, soul, sweet soul_  
 _And she teach me how to sing_  
 _Shows me colors when there’s none to see_  
 _Gives me hope when I can’t believe_  
 _That for **the** first time-_  
 _I feel loved._  
I was right- everyone in **the** lobby is staring at me, in a way I’m unaccustomed to. It’s not because they think I’m beautiful- it’s because **the** song is amazing.  
 **The** First Time starts out a bit too sentimental, but towards **the** end it swells so beautifully that soft tears come to my eyes. I groan suddenly. Not this again…  
 **The** next song is called Dirty Day and it distracts me from giving in to my emotions. **The** bassline, **the** beat behind it, tells me there is evil along **the** way. When Bono begins to sing, I tremble pleasurably. **The** lyrics shake me to **the** core. I was right- Bono is a villain in this song.   
_I had **the** starring role_  
 _I was **the** bad guy who walked out_  
It’s confusing, these lyrics. I don’t understand half **the** words he sings. Maybe later I can get Bono to explain it for me.  
When Dirty Day ends **with** a bang- not dissimilar from **the** song Exit on **the** Joshua Tree album- a funky, grooving beat comes in. I roll my eyes and wait for Johnny Cash.  
He sings deeply, and I make a face. **The** people listening to **the** album in **the** lobby **with** me don’t seem to care for it too much either. I don’t like **the** tune of this song, **the** words, or **the** voice- way to end **the** album **with** a clunker, U2.  
 **The** music in **the** song is **the** only enjoyable part. Now it’s drawing to a close, and I hear a familiar howl over **the** end- Bono reassuring me that he can still sing. Good. Now comes **the** silence.  
 **The** album has finished, and I’m drained of energy. Only one album, Achtung Baby, has done that to me before. I lazily get up and go to **the** receptionist, asking him in my poor French if I can leave **the** record on **the** player for later use. There’s going to be some serious listening over tomorrow.  
I am just figuring out what s answer is when an alarm goes off. It’s shrill and hurts my ears. **The** receptionist’s face goes white, and he blurts something that I assume means- FIRE!  
Frantically I rush over to **the** turntable. I don’t smell smoke yet, but it must be coming. If there’s anything I want to salvage, it has to be **the** album.  
 **The** beeping grows louder as I near **the** record player. “Someone turn off that damn alarm!” I shout in Dutch. I throw **the** needle off **the** still spinning record, and just like that- **the** beeping is gone.  
Whirling around, I search for any sign of flames. Why is everyone just standing there? Why aren’t they running to safety-  
And then it clicks. I peer down at **the** record in my hand. A sheepish look crosses my face.  
 **The** receptionist says something that I can work out **the** meaning of. It’s a definite NO to playing **the** album again.  
I hastily slip Zooropa back into its case and head upstairs, feeling small.  
***  
My first morning in Strasbourg begins **with** a knock on my door. I’m barely awake and yet I go to answer it, pushing my hair back from my face. Eric stands outside, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, contrasting directly **with** my sleep-fuzzed brain. He must have had coffee…  
“What do you want?”  
“Letter.” He deposits it in my hand and leaves, seeing as I am not presentable.  
I don’t need to look at **the** address to know who sent it. Tearing open **the** envelope, a message resents itself- _Dear Marieke, it has come to my attention that you are employed **with** another company. Your roommate Lina has talked to me on **the** phone. She’s told me that **the** income she’s receiving from you is stable; however, it is a foreign currency that cannot be deposited into your bank account in Rotterdam._  
 _Lina can exchange **the** money you are sending for its equivalent in guilders,but that is not her duty. You should be sending her guilders in **the** first place if your new job is meant to be earning something._  
 _Furthermore, KLM Airlines is functioning well without you. I have hired a volunteer to take your place for **the** moment. However, I am reluctant to pay her your wages because technically you never gave up your job. We require more information from you. How long is this tour going to last, and will you be making more money from your current occupation than from KLM? If you do have a true job on Zoo TV, your services may no longer be required at KLM. We cannot hold onto your job while you are employed to another source._  
 _Your holiday hours consist of ten more weeks. After that you may have to quit your job on tour, or we will dismiss your services._  
 **The** letter is signed by my boss. Great, just great.  
Knowing that there’s a deadline on my job suddenly makes it all **the** more serious. It’s true, I have been sending Lina half **the** money that Bono’s paid me for **the** scriptwriting, and it has been in whatever currency is native to **the** country we’re currently residing in. But I thought Lina could work through that difficulty. Surely banks can exchange currencies? And what business does my boss have calling Lina? She should have told her to fuck off. Well, that probably would have gotten me fired…  
And what about my job at KLM? I don’t want that to end- it’s a pretty stable job- but it appears that I’ll have no choice if **the** tour exceeds ten more weeks.  
A sinking feeling creeps into my stomach, telling me that **the** fun will have to end soon.   
I dress carefully before coming downstairs. My idea of wearing yellow today hasn’t flown overnight. In **the** clothes Lina sent me, surely there must be one lemon shirt…  
But after turning up **with** nothing, I remember that I’ve never owned a yellow article of clothing. It’s not a great color for me. Purple works much better.  
It’s time to go shopping today. Maybe I can get Eric or Bono to loan me some francs…  
I wrap my silver bracelet around my wrist and put on a clean white shirt. Then I step out **the** door, fussing **with** my hair. It’s going to need recurling today. I’ve got serious bedhead.  
I leave **the** letter from KLM under my pillow on **the** bed.  
Downstairs in **the** lobby, there is no sign of either U2 or **the** crew. However, I do see Eric going into **the** breakfast room. I call out to him before he disappears, and Eric turns around eagerly.  
“Morning, Marieke.”  
“Good morning, Eric. Can I borrow some money?”  
His guard flies up. “What do you need it for?”  
“I want to buy a shirt.” And I want to buy it before Bono sees me today. A strange need to surprise him by wearing lemon has taken over me. **The** things I do for this man…  
“I’ll come **with** you if you like,” Eric suggests. “I can pay for what you want.”  
“Eric, you don’t have to do that!” How will I pay him back?  
“It’s nothing,” he shrugs. “Saves me some time before we get down to **the** stadium.”  
After convincing him to snag some breakfast food for me, we set off to **the** shops. He won’t allow me to use my money for **the** bus trip to take us to downtown Starsbourg.  
Once we hit **the** first clothing store, Eric fades into **the** background as I start my search. Everything yellow catches my eye. Does it fit? Does it look good on me? Do I look like a canary? If so, I’m not buying that.  
Eric follows me awkwardly. I can tell shopping in France is not in his element. Especially when I’m shopping just to flirt **with** someone. But France is a major fashion industry… there’s gotta be something that fits my requirements. And it’s worth not finding what I’m looking for just to have **the** shopping experience.  
Finally it comes down to me and one shirt. It’s fitted to my shape, **the** perfect size between too small and just right. I’m done growing- a few years ago I would have chosen a shirt two sizes too big- and I want to wear clothes that fit pretty snugly.  
I reach for **the** shirt- and just like that, another hand folds over mine. I look up, stunned at **the** touch, and meet **the** eyes of another woman who looks equally shocked.  
She speaks first. “Qu’est-ce que vous veux?”  
What do you want… it reminds me of **the** intro to Zooropa, but now is not **the** time to mention that. “I am buying… this,” I say, stumbling a bit in French.   
“La chemise? Je veux lui aussi,” she says.  
I look up, searching for another on **the** rack, and then I remember that this is **the** last in **the** store.  
“Sorry,” I say, and take it from her hands.  
Her brow furrows, and I motion Eric to attention. If a fight spills out, I better have an advantage.  
Seeing Eric by my side, **the** French woman seems to realize that she’s outnumbered. “Bon, prendre lui,” she tells me, and steps back to **the** sidelines.   
“What’s going on?” Eric asks.  
“She wants **the** shirt too,” I say. Suddenly I feel sorry for **the** woman. She reminds me of Lina, **the** way we met over a copy of **The** Unforgettable Fire, only this time I’m meeting this woman over a shirt.  
I hand **the** said item to Eric to purchase it and go back to **the** woman. “Comment s’appelle tu?”   
“Je m’appelle Celine.”  
“Je m’appelle Marieke,” I respond. We size each other up.  
“Est-ce que vous parlez anglais?” Celina asks.  
“Oui, je parle anglais…”  
Just like that, she switches to English. “You are not going to give me that shirt, no?”  
I look down at my purchase. “No, no, Eric bought it for me, I don’t want to waste money!”  
She blinks translucent gray eyes. “I will try another store, but it won’t be in my size.”  
I start to speak, but Eric just happens to be coming up behind me, and I can tell he is fed up **with** shopping. “All right, I have to get to **the** stadium soon, should I leave you behind?”  
Celine’s eyes widen. “You are going to **the** stadium? Why?”  
“ _We’re_ going to **the** stadium,” Eric corrects her, “and I have to be there to set up for **the** concert tonight.”  
“U2?!” Celine exclaims. “You work there? I am going tonight!”   
This leads me to turn to her, gasping “You like U2?”  
“Yes!” She looks just as excited to discover this fact as I am to discover hers. “They are great! You _work_ for them?”  
I start to explain to her what I do- I haven’t gotten to show off about my job to anyone yet- but Eric sighs and turns to leave. Celine looks confused from my words- she wouldn’t have understood anyway. So I go to follow Eric. Before we can leave, I ask Celine, “What seat did you buy for tonight?”  
She tells me her seat number, and I recognize it as a spot right by **the** catwalk leading out to **the** B stage. Wheels spin in my head.  
“Celine, I’ll see you tonight,” I say.  
“Oh, good night!” she wishes me. “Enjoy your time in Strasbourg!”   
Eric is waiting for me outside of **the** store. I swing my bag around as he waits for **the** traffic to clear so we can cross **the** street. Someone is zooming down **the** road over **the** speed limit. Whoever’s driving that car shouldn’t be on **the** streets.  
 **The** car screeches to a stop on **the** other side of **the** road. Passersby halt in their walks to give **the** car evil looks. A woman bustling along **the** sidewalk cocks her head, and from here I can recognize that bundle of curls- it’s Morleigh!  
 **The** car’s window rolls down, and I catch a glimpse of Bono inside. Oh, damn… I should have changed my shirt in **the** shop!  
Eric is oblivious to my sudden panic, and runs across **the** street. Luckily there’s a lull in traffic, or he would have been flattened. I shove my bag behind my back and follow desolately.  
“Hey, little girl, want a ride? I have candy,” Bono is telling Morleigh when I reach **the** car.  
Morleigh laughs. “Did you want me?”  
“Bono!” Eric cries, reaching **the** sidewalk at last.  
Bono turns his attention to his other side. “Eric? Oh, hullo Marieke!”   
“Hey,” I mutter as I step onto **the** sidewalk.  
“Hello you two,” Morleigh smiles. “What did you want me for, Bono?”  
“The video shooting is going on now,” Bono huffs. “I thought I told you we’d need you for it…”  
“You didn’t call,” she purrs. “I waited for a while, but no one came to my room.”  
Bono’s mouth twitches up. “Oh, that’s how you play. Well, you do need a ride!”  
“Can I come too?” I pipe up. This talk of a video shoot has me intrigued. Is it really time to release a single from Zooropa?  
Bono’s adoring gaze flicks onto me. I wish I could see is eyes from below his sunglasses. “Sure, Angel! We could always use a tagalong.”  
“Like me?” Eric asks, his eyes lighting up.  
Bono peers coolly down his nose at Eric, and I catch a flash of blue. “Don’t you have work to do at **the** stadium?”  
Eric backs up. “Well, I thought since Marieke’s coming…”  
“She doesn’t have to set up **the** stage. You, on **the** other hand…” Eric crosses his arms. “You are being paid to set it up. I’m sure you’ve kept everyone else waiting.”  
“Can you at least get me a ride down there?” Eric mutters.  
I can tell that Bono wants to refuse him, but **the** words he speaks are, “The backseat’s free.”  
Morleigh, Eric and I climb into **the** car. Without waiting for us to buckle our seatbelts, Bono pulls away from **the** curb. I fall into Morleigh, who helps me back up and plunges her safety belt in tight.  
Before **the** car veers off, I spy Celine standing on **the** sidewalk. No doubt she knows Bono is **the** one driving. I give her a wave, and we’re down **the** road, heading for **the** stadium and then into waters unknown.  
                                         ***  
Bono drops Eric off at **the** stadium, and he sullenly says goodbye. **The** car drives off, **with** Bono muttering, “What are we gonna do **with** that man?”  
I sigh and cross my legs. “Where am I going?”  
Bono glances in **the** rearview mirror at me. “We’re doing a videoshoot today, believe it or not.”  
My previous intrigue swells. “What song is **the** video for?”  
Bono grins, remembering that he hasn’t told Marieke all **the** facts. “Our first single from Zooropa is Numb.”  
He watches her expression grow shocked in **the** reflection- and it makes him want to laugh. Shouldn’t she be used to his odd decisions by now?  
“But- but why _Numb?_ You’ll bore everyone!”  
Bono laughs.  
“It’s a very long song.”  
“And that’s precisely why we chose it for a single. **The** confusion of it all… **the** audience won’t know what they’re hearing. I guess, in a way, our goal was to fuck up **the** mainstream all along.” He laughs again as I roll my eyes.  
It seems a common theme for Zoo TV is confusion. It comes to me **with** a sad sort of pressure that   I’m used to it by now. **The** joke’s grown old.  
       “And aren’t you releasing it as a video single?” Morleigh speaks up.  
       Bono answers happily. “Yeah. We weren’t sure about this… we’ve never done anything like that before. But Numb just isn’t radio friendly, so it might work better on **the** TV. Which means we’ve got to make one hell of a video.”  
       “With my lovely face in it,” Morleigh giggles.  
       “Lovely body more like,” Bono corrects.  
       “Why release it at _all?”_ I wonder out loud. “You know Stay is a better single for **the** radio…”  
       “Oh, there’s a thought.” Bono blows past a green light, at **the** same time glancing back to grin at me. It takes all my willpower not to scream “EYES ON THE ROAD!” Fortunately Morleigh tells him in a gentler way.  
       “Your ideas never cease to interest me, Marieke.”  
       “Thanks,” I mutter. If that’s a compliment…  
         Eventually we park outside a building, obviously **the** place where **the** videoshoot will take place. Bono leads Morleigh and I inside, and he guides us to a room.  
       There’s a large crew in **the** room, surrounded by cameras. I spy a chair in **the** middle of **the** floor and wonder who’s going to sit in it. Bono heads over to a man- presumably **the** director of **the** video- and explains that he’s found Morleigh. **The** man exhales in relief.  
       “Marieke, would you like to watch **the** filming?” Bono asks me. “It’s pretty boring stuff, honestly.”  
       I think on it. **The** filming will probably take a while, so I skip **the** first half and go out to find a snack and a drink. Bill comes **with** me and we chat politely.   
       “Excuse me a moment,” I say after my third sip of grape juice. “Can you turn around?”  
       Bill obliges. “What are you doing?”  
       “Changing,” I answer, already pulling my shirt over my head. It’s time to wear lemon.  
Bill half-laughs- “What did you buy at that store?” He’s noticed my shopping bag.  
“This,” I answer. “Turn around.”  
He turns back around and I strike a pose. **The** shirt fits me like a dream, even better than I could have imagined. “How do I look?”   
       “Marieke, you look great,” he tells me, and there’s no reason why I shouldn’t believe him.  
       When we return to **the** video shoot, **the** director is going over **the** footage with the band. I elbow my way through and watch **the** review. When I realize what’s going on in **the** clips, I promptly burst out laughing.  
       “What?” Bono asks, turning to me.  
       “Oh god…” is my only response.  
       Edge, being **the** singer of Numb, obviously has to be **the** center of **the** video. He sits in a chair, endlessly spewing off “Don’t” commands while random people do equally random things to him. Through it all, Edge just sits and stares straight into **the** camera, feeling numb.  
       I grapple him. “Edge, you are a great actor!”   
       “Oh, you think so?” he asks. “It’s so hard to sit still…”  
       We finish playing **the** video back, me clamping a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing too hard.  
       “Okay, Morleigh’s in **the** next scene,” **the** director announces. Morleigh gives him a smiley nod. “What do you want her to be doing? Edge… would you prefer her legs around your neck or her foot in your face?”   
       “The foot in **the** face!” Adam, Bono, and Larry chorus in unison, all wearing matching evil grins.  
       Edge murmurs, “I prefer **the** legs around **the** neck.”  
       Larry and Bono raise their eyebrows while Adam giggles. **The** director is unfazed.  
“If you really want we can do it without film in **the** camera.”  
     My face hits my palm and stays there for about a minute.  
       They resume filming after the near-unanimous vote for Morleigh’s foot in Edge’s face. Another woman is enlisted to help out **with** that- not me, unfortunately, and it tugs at me more than it should. The two women get into position and begin smearing their feet all over Edge’s cheeks while **the** director urges them under his breath to “not go so hard.” Edge tries to give **the** rest of **the** band murderous glares- _“See what you got me into?”-_ but fails after realizing that this is being filmed and he has to look dead to the world. As for the rest of U2, they try to gleefully stifle their laughter, which of course does nothing to help Edge’s case in the least. He looks at me for support, but I am cracking up so badly that I have to leave the room.  
       When I come back, Edge seems to be enjoying himself. The women are doing a reshoot and this time the impact of their feet is more expected. I also note that Bono has left the room- probably the director threw him out for being a bad audience member.   
       The remaining audience, however, appears to be no better. Larry gets up and sneaks his way over to Edge’s side, removing his shoe and thrusting his socked foot into Edge’s face before the guitarist can react. The Edge wrinkles his nose, obviously disliking the smell of Larry-foot. This sends me back into hysterics, and the director calls out, “CUT!”  
       It’s slow going. To prevent myself from ruining another shot, I go out to talk with Bill again. Bono returns and joins our party, and I’m secretly pleased. I try to get him to mention the color of my choice, but his eyes barely focus on me. Is this man blind?  
       Finally, as the latest round of footage is being reviewed, Bono’s gaze skims my chest. “Wait for a minute, Marieke. You weren’t wearing that when I drove you here, were you?”  
       “No,” I say, blinking. “I bought it at the store downtown.”   
       His eyes are locked on my breasts- I tighten my fist, hoping he’s not looking for t _hat_ reason- and wait for him to mention the lemon likeness. However, when Bono does talk it’s just “Huh. Okay,” and he leaves me.  
       Jeez, what does it take to get this man to notice?!  
       We wait for the video to be over. Bono is called in and co-stars in a scene with Larry. I go out to eat lunch, wondering for a moment if I should go down to meet Eric at the stadium, and then decide it doesn’t matter. What if later I miss some good scenes in the video because I left?  
       By the end of the day, the video is completed. We’re all exhausted from working and watching and need something to celebrate. So someone breaks out the drinks, and Larry toasts his friend for us- “To Reg!” We all join in happily and drink to The Edge’s name. Edge himself is pleased.  
       And it’s only when I stumble upstairs to my hotel room do I see it and remember. The letter from KLM…  
       I reread my boss’s note. By the time I get to the final word my hands are shaking with anger. All I can think now is _No, no, no…_  
       Those angry hands move, not of my own accord. They rip into the paper and tear long strips onto the floor. I shove the remains of the letter beneath my bed.  
       They’re not going to take me away from here…  
       I need to call Lina.  
       She answers on the second ring, and I can hear her usually chirpy voice sounding a bit low-key. “Hello?”   
     “Lina. It’s me.”   
       “Marieke?” Why does she sound confused? I haven’t been gone for that long. “What do you want?”  
       I try to tell her about the letter from KLM and how I will have to quit my job on Zoo TV, but her query of _what do you want_ brings to mind a certain song… “Lina! I have U2’s new album now!”   
       Her voice halts. “What was that?”  
It comes gushing out. “Oh, Lina, Bono gave me a copy of **the** album! It’s finished now. It’s called Zooropa and it’s insane and I love it and I _made_ it?”  
“What?” She’s vaguely disinterested.  
       “I helped make a track on it. And they’re going to release a single… and Lina, it has **The** Edge singing! You’ll love it!” Never mind **the** fact that I don’t love it. “And they filmed a video and it’s hilarious and it’s going to be released only as a video so people can see Edge on **the** television every day!”  
       She laughs, uncertain and briefly. “Speaking of which, **the** money you sent me came **with** some pretty nice pics of Edge’s pants…”  
       “And… and there’s a song you should hear…” I try to distract Lina from mentioning **the** money again, and these words just slip out. But maybe Lina will like Stay as much as I do… Not a word of **the** song has disappeared from my memory. I hastily start singing. “Green light, seven eleven, you stop in for a pack of cigarettes…”   
There’s complete silence on **the** other end as I sing. My voice carries well over **the** phone line, **the** high notes in **the** song just barely hit, but hit nonetheless.  
“Three o’clock in **the** morning… it’s quiet and there’s no one around… just **the** bang and **the** clatter… as an angel hits **the** ground.” I swallow.  
“Just **the** bang and **the** clatter as an angel runs to ground.” In my memory, a cymbal is struck to end **the** song.  
Lina hangs up on me.  
  



	22. Day After Day

       Tonight is U2’s show in Paris, and I have to pester Bono into getting me a seat in **the** audience.  
“But Marieke, what will MacPhisto do without his very best stylist?”  
I cross my arms, waiting. He knows he’s not going to beguile me that way. “You’ve managed backstage without me before.” He’s probably had an even better time of it when I wasn’t there. When I dress **the** **Devil** , I tend to get very distracted.  
“Besides, **the** girl I met in **the** store will be sitting next to me.” _Besides, it’s near **the** B stage. _ “I want to see her again.” _I want to be pulled up again._  
“Ah, I see. Good point.” Bono stares past me, running his fingers restlessly through his hair. “What does she look like, by **the** way?”  
I describe Celine. “She is blond and has gray eyes. Her hair is very short.”  
He nods, and I wonder what he could possibly want **with** **the** information.  
Down at **the** stadium, a line has formed of eager fans, waiting to get in. I, being staff, breeze through **the** doors and take my seat by **the** B stage. Celine hasn’t been let in yet. I study my fingernails and wait.  
Soon I find her. She is making her way to her seat, and when she recognizes me her eyes pop. “Marieke!” Celine yells, rushing to her seat.  
“But- but you are working! Why are you here?”  
“Because I want to,” I answer. “I wanted to see you again…”  
She gathers her overcoat around herself and sits. “That’s very nice.”  
We watch **the** opening acts. **The** music is nice, but **the** French crowd is restless for **the** main event. I feel that one shout of “U2!” will send **the** whole stadium to chanting it.  
Finally **the** screens flash and run through their beginning images, familiar to me now. Celine gapes. I smile slyly. What a newbie.  
 **The** bright screens are made to distract from **the** fact that **the** band is setting up onstage. It’s only when **The** Fly enters, lit by **the** blue screen behind him, that **the** fans think to look for anyone else. Celine screams Bono’s name. He saunters up to **the** spotlight.  
“I’m ready… I’m ready for **the** laughing gas!”  
I’ve heard **the** words of this song so many times before, and **the** familiarity is comforting. Celine and I enjoy **the** show together. I’ve missed having a fellow fan to share **the** experience **with**.  
 **The** set breezes past. I’m **dancing** through most of it, and finally relax when **the** band plays Trying To Throw Your Arms Around **The** World. It’s an Achtung Baby song, which means I should love it- but I don’t. To me this is **the** lowest point on **the** album. But **the** live version of it isn’t bad…  
“Six o’clock in **the** morning, you’re **the** last to hear **the** warning. You been trying to throw your arms around **the** world…” Bono dances down **the** main stage and slides himself across **the** catwalk.  
“Face plant in **the** sidewalk, your lips move but you can’t talk. You been trying to throw your arms around **the** world…”  
Edge goes for **the** microphone at **the** same time Bono reaches for his and they sing, “Gonna run to you, run to you, run to you! Woman be still.”  
“Gonna run to you, run to you, run to you,” Bono sings in a daze, eyeing **the** crowd. “Ya know that I will…”  
He moves towards a camera and hangs on it, wrenching **the** thing from its stand. “Sunrise like a nosebleed, your head hurts and you can’t breathe. You been trying to throw your arms around **the** world…”  
Bono turns **the** camera to **the** audience and contemplates as **the** adoring fans reach up to meet his hand. “How far are ya gonna go, before you find your way back home? You been tryin’ to throw your arms around **the** world…”  
Edge steps down onto **the** catwalk. “Gonna run to you, run to you, run to you. Woman, be still!”  
Bono is absorbed in **the** crowd. He peers down **with** a searching look in his eye as he sings, “Gonna run to you, run to you, run to you. You know that I will…”  
Suddenly he stops right in front of me and motions for someone to rise. I do, smirking proudly. But at **the** same time, Celine does, her eyes shining bright. I frown at her- why is she getting up? It’s me that Bono wants. Then my frown is frozen in place as she is boosted onto **the** stage and wraps her arms around Bono’s waist.  
What? This must be a mistake! Surely Bono wanted me up there. But as Celine squeals **with** delight, hugging Bono tightly, he grins and makes no move to get away. In fact he’s enjoying her arms around him… This is no mistake. This is Celine that he wanted.  
“I dreamt that I saw Dali **with** a supermarket trolley,” Bono murmurs. He squeezes Celine. “He was trying to throw his arms around a girl.” Celine laughs and looks up into Bono’s sweaty face, pure joy radiating off of her.  
Bono pulls a ways back and reaches into his jacket, producing a bottle of champagne. “He took an open top beetle through **the** eye of a needle… he was trying to throw his arms around **the** world.” Celine hangs onto his shoulder **with** an air of admiration. She looks so stupid up there, her black coat flying in **the** breeze.  
Bono stops singing to hold **the** bottle out to Celine. She smiles and reaches for it. He pulls it back, grips it in both hands, and uncorks it. **The** force of **the** champagne spewing out throws Bono back a little, Celine watching **with** wide eyes.  
He speaks suddenly- “Let’s make a movie!” Celine is handed **the** camera, which she promptly turns onto Bono. **The** singer poses, raising his champagne bottle, and once again holds it out to Celine. She takes it and they both sip **the** drink. Bono nestles his arm around her, just a bit, and she films **the** two together.  
 **The** shot is spoiled when Edge comes up behind them. Celine turns and peers through **the** viewfinder, locating and filming Edge’s hands on his guitar. Bono leans against him, hooking his elbow around Edge’s neck and lifting **the** microphone to his mouth.  
“Nothing much to say I guess, just **the** same as all **the** rest… you been trying to throw your arms around **the** world.” His voice turns playful **with** **the** next line. “And a woman needs a man like **The** Edge needs a handicam… when you’re trying to throw your arms around **the** world.”  
Celine prowls **with** **the** aforementioned handicam, catching a shot of Bono and Edge singing into **the** same mic- “Gonna run to you, run to you, run to you. Woman, be still!”  
“Gonna run to you, run to you, run to you… woman, be still…” Bono answers, breaking away from Edge.  
“Woman, be still…” He sneaks up to Celine and wraps his arms around her.  
“Woman, I will.” I see his hand graze her butt as he kisses her cheek. Celine looks out of her mind **with** joy, and clings even as he tries to dislodge her. She eventually must go, and Bono waves her back to her seat. I’m seething **with** anger. He won’t look at me.  
       Even though **the** show gets moving again after that excursion, Celine will not stop chattering. I try to listen to **the** music and yet she keeps going on and on in French- I can barely even understand **the** damn woman!- about how amazing that was, how she was pulled onstage by Bono… and I wasn’t… She jabs me accidentally **with** her arm, or maybe on purpose to get me to keep listening. I haven’t noticed how bony her elbows are until now.  
       “Goodbye,” I say, walking out.  
       It’s hard to shove my way to **the** door, but eventually I succeed. I manage to turn my back on **the** music and exit **the** stadium, my hands shaking. I still them and lean against **the** wall outside, my breath slowly leaving my body. I can catch glimmers of music from out here- they are playing Bad.  
       Only a few workers outside **the** stadium take notice of me, and I step into **the** shadow, closing my eyes. Maybe… maybe I could disappear… maybe my heart will slow and my breath will stop and I’ll just become one **with** **the** darkness. My body starts shutting down, dead to **the** world.  
       When I next open my eyes, I hear loud cheering coming from **the** stadium. Edge’s guitar rings so purely it stops my heart, and Bono- no, MacPhisto- sings “Baby, baby, baby, light my way.”  
       Tears come to my eyes and I clumsily shove away from **the** wall. Why did I leave **the** show? I’m dying out here to see MacPhisto, to catch a glimpse of his face…  
       But he wouldn’t dance with me. Bono didn’t want me onstage tonight, so why should his counterpart feel the same? I’d just get jealous over some other poor bitch and- then what?  
I dig my hands into my ears and pretend not to listen.  
       It’s a long time before I feel free enough to take my hands away. I hear no more music, just the sound of people milling about the stadium, buzzed after the show. I stay in my patch of darkness and wait.  
       A man’s figure moves nearby, creeping closer to me. I tense, ready to run from whoever it is. If the man is Bono, I’m not sure how I can stand it.   
       It’s Jack. He melts in from the shadows, pulling his arms around himself. I hope he’s just going to walk past, but he sees me and skids to a stop in front of me. “Marieke?”  
       “Hi, Jack,” I say, my voice dull. He scrutinizes me, eyes lingering on my face. He can tell I’ve been crying. “Ben je in orde?”  
The sound of my own native tongue relaxes my body completely. I sigh and answer him in Dutch- “I’m fine.”  
       “That’s good, then,” he says, reverting back to English. I know he knows that I’m really not fine, but all he says next is “Bono’s been looking for you.”  
     My foolish heart lifts. “Really?”  
     “Yeah. He wants to know where you went. He says you’ll love to join the group now. We’re going out.”  
     A rock settles in my chest. How should he know what I want and what I don’t want? “Tell him I’m at the hotel. Tell him I don’t feel well.”  
       His eyes narrow just the slightest, but all he says is, “All right. Is that where you’re going?”  
 _I want to leave this place now._ “But I haven’t had dinner yet.”  
       Jack wheels back on his heels. “Can I take you out? I mean, if that’s okay with you.”  
       I consider his proposition, and decide that dinner with Jack isn’t a half-bad idea. I need to get away from all this…  
       He nods and gives me a tentative flash of teeth. “Okay. I know a good place where we can eat…”  
       “Is it a dance club?” I ask warily, my eyebrows sliding together. Wouldn’t it be ironic to end up in **the** same place as U2?  
       “You mean _discotheque.”_ He rolls his eyes. “That’s about all they have here, discotheques and cafes. It all depends on if you want to go **dancing** afterwards.”  
       “Do they have a discotheque next to a café?” I ask.  
       He shrugs. “We’ll see.”  
                                         ***  
       And for us, seeing is believing. Jack brings me to a club that offers a dinner menu- a miracle, for most of **the** clubs I’ve seen only serve beverages, as if they expect us to live on alcohol- and we walk in famished. A flouncy woman shows us to **the** bar, and we gaze out at **the** clubbers grinding on **the** dance floor.  
       “Don’t let me drink too much tonight,” Jack murmurs as **the** woman slides our first orders onto the bar. “I’m, oh, about _this_ close to being an alcoholic and when I get drunk, I get wild.” He smiles apologetically, raising his glass.  
       I feel my face twist into a grin- the expression seems odd- and speak as he swallows. “I get drunk too easily. It happens after, er, three drinks, usually. When I get drunk, I get sensible.” He laughs under the light.  
       “But I’m serious,” I say. “I do things I never would do… smart, sensible things.”  
       We contemplate our predicaments and drink to each other’s health. Jack doesn’t speak all too much, and I’m comfortable with silence.  
       “How are things working for Zoo TV, Marieke?” Okay, so sometimes silence just doesn’t cut it.  
       “It’s okay,” I say. “More exciting than I’m used to. But again, my life before U2 was very boring.”   
       “Your life before you _met_ U2, you mean,” he corrects. “I find it hard to believe that your entire life sucked before you were 17.”   
       “Okay, maybe not…” I amend. “But until I found the band, I hadn’t truly lived.”   
       He drinks- “Oh, that’s the way I felt when I saw Scotland for the first time.”   
       “So you aren’t _from_ Scotland,” I say, tugging on the silver bracelet at my wrist.  
       “Oh no. I was born in Ireland and lived there for quite a while… and it’s still my home, but Scotland just calls me, awakens something in me I’ve never felt in any other place… I do love it,” he says, tone slightly subdued.  
       I should have figured it out. His accent sounds closer to Bono’s than to any Scottish voice I’ve heard. Not that I’ve heard many Scottish accents, though…  
       “How did you start the job?” I ask. “Why U2?”  
       “Just another one of the bands I’ve worked with,” Jack says. “It could have been anyone. They were hiring. I’ve always been in music business- can’t imagine my life any other way.”  
       I nod. We both raise our glasses at the same time, realize it, and lower them simultaneously.   
“I’ve only been in the… plane-phone business,” I say, and drink before Jack can move. “And I worked briefly in a supermarket.”  
       He sighs slowly and tips **the** last of his drink into his mouth.  
       “I wonder where U2 are now. Wouldn’t it be funny if they showed up at this club?”  
       “I wouldn’t like it,” I grumble, still not quite recovered from **the** anger Bono has inspired in me tonight.  
       Jack looks into my eyes but doesn’t say anything. We relax and listen to **the** French pop music coming in over **the** speakers. **The** waitress comes back over **with** our meals.  
As we eat, I ask Jack, “Can you speak Dutch **with** me?”  
       “Maar natuurlijk.”   
       Comfort washes over me. “Thank you,” I say in my native language. “Thank you so much.”  
     “It’s nothing,” he answers in rough Dutch, soft, unconcealed eyes darting downward.  
     Slowly we pick at our food, and my foot taps against **the** seat. Jack looks away from me, but I know he is feeling **the** beat. Finally he can’t hold it in any longer, and stands up- “I’m going to go dance.”  
       “Please do,” I murmur, and stay in my seat, checking out Jack’s moves.  
       Jack joins **the** throng of people and starts moving **with** **the** music, his feet turning him around. He moves **with** unusual grace, **the** likes of which I’ve never seen in a man. His smoothness in **dancing** attracts a few nods and whistles from **the** French crowd.  
       I watch, intrigued. Eventually one fact occurs to me- **the** way Jack interacts **with** **the** men is not unlike **the** way he interacts **with** **the** women. He turns his body in **the** direction of different people, regardless of what gender they are. He moves in sync **with** anyone who’ll dance. A small smile crosses his face, and his eyes blink shut.  
       I move from **the** stool and cross **the** dance floor, getting swept up by **the** wave. My arms come above my head and I’m belly-dancing just like Morleigh. I travel towards **the** DJ playing his tunes, and wave to get his attention.  
       “Oui?”  
     “Can I ask- do you have any Badfinger music?” I ask in English. He looks confused, so I repeat my request- “Badfinger?”  
     He roots around in his collection of records. I’m doubting that he has **the** song I want to hear- Badfinger was a British band, and their music was most popular in **the** 70’s. I don’t think **the** French DJ will own something that’s not mainstream. But he returns **with** one record- a slow song, one that I love, and **the** exact tune I’m requesting.  
       I nod and he puts **the** record on. A swell of music floats over **the** speakers.  
 _I remember finding out about you_  
 _Everyday my mind is all around you_  
 _Looking out from my lonely room_  
 _Day after day_  
 _Bring it home, baby bring it soon_  
 _I give my love to you_  
       I drift back through **the** clubbers, who are pairing up **with** their dates for **the** song. Jack comes into view, and I take his hand. We dance slowly on **the** floor.  
 _I remember holding you while you sleep_  
 _Every night I feel **the** tears that you weep_  
 _Looking out of my lonely gloom_  
 _Day after day_  
       I can’t help but notice how great a partner he is.  
 _I’ll give my love to you_  
 **The** piano sweeps us up. We bump to a stop in **the** middle of **the** dancers, becoming **the** eye of a storm.  
       “Are you okay?” he asks in my language. “You’re crying?”  
 _Oh, dammit._ “Er… NO,” I mumble.  
       “It’s not something I did, is it?”  
       “Long night I guess…”  
       We walk back to our seats  
 _Looking out of my lonely room_  
 _Day after day_  
 _If it’s love, baby make it soon_  
 _I give my love to you_  
     How interesting, that a song this old was available in **the** dance club. Maybe all **the** slow songs are old songs.  
       We exit **the** discotheque.  
“You don’t love me, do you.”  
“No, I don’t.” He speaks **with** such conviction that it has to be true.  
“Will you talk to me if I ever want you to?”  
“Sure. I’ll even speak in Dutch if you prefer it.”  
“Of course I prefer it.”  
     We walk away from **the** streetlights, away from **the** sidewalk and **the** cars. If I look very hard, I can spot **the** moon in **the** sky, a far off orb of reflected light. **The** haze of **the** city Paris nearly drowns out **the** view, and I look away, not wanting to see.  
We walk, **the** shadows moving beneath our feet as Jack’s finger brushes **the** back of my hand for one second, and I allow myself a small, secret smile.  
We walk.


	23. Chapter 23

       I step on a plane feeling only half-human and stumble off feeling even less. **The** Zoo crew has touched down in Switzerland- known for its cheese, watches, and knives. During our stay here I’ll make it a point to find out if these products are superior to **the** type I have in Rotterdam (or if there’s such a thing as overrating), and explore Lausanne **with** a careful eye.  
       By now I’m free from **the** crew, almost like a separate entity that holds power over itself. There are no demands that I must be in a certain place at a certain time, and I always have enough money if I want to shop. My only real duty is to report to Bono’s specified meeting place at **the** first chance he’s free to write MacPhisto’s speeches. **The** income I receive from my writing skills is split and I send half to Lina, though I know **the** unfamiliar currencies do no good for her. We haven’t spoken in… two days? Is that really how long it’s been? It feels like a month has passed since we last talked, and I’m too apprehensive to tell her about my job’s deadline. **The** other half of my money I keep for spending in whatever country **the** tour stops in.  
This morning I’m so invigorated that I go for a lengthy walk around **the** city of Lausanne. For **the** first time in a long time, I feel **the** need to exercise. I start out on a slow jog, **the** morning sun flashing off my silver bracelet. A stirring in me drives me on, a need for **the** fresh air and **the** warmth of **the** sun on my back.  
When I return and enter **the** lobby, there seems to be no sign of **the** band. I should go find Bono and ask him where to meet up for **the** writing later today, but truthfully I don’t really want to see him. We haven’t stood face to face since **the** concert in Paris. That night I’d gone back to **the** hotel and went to bed early, and **the** next day I flew here, in a separate plane from **the** band. **The** last time I saw Bono I was angry **with** him, but today’s a new day and my feelings are lukewarm. Now I’m wondering what **the** big deal was in France and why I continue to avoid him. Until I can remember, I might as well keep away.  
So I creep out of **the** breakfast room in **the** lobby **with** a plate in my hands, planning on sneaking my meal up to my room. Food always tastes better in bed anyway… But before I can leave, someone calls my name in a dazzling Irish accent. _Damn you, Bono._ He must have been invisible.  
“Marieke?” I spin and our eyes meet. He’s working his way through a pile of bacon, and has to swallow first before he speaks again. “Where are you going?”  
I glance down at **the** plate in my hands and instantly shove it behind my back.  
“No…where…”  
He raises an eyebrow at me. I’m caught on **the** shape of his eyes, uncovered and beautiful.  
“Why are you hiding your breakfast behind your back? Not trying to hoard anything, are you?”  
I shake my head and set my plate on **the** nearest table. Three whole seconds- infinity- pass without any more words. Finally I ask, “What time do you need to see me?”  
“Afternoon,” he sweetly replies. “Meet in **the** lobby for lunch.”  
I nod and gather my plate back up, feeling his eyes burn **the** back of my neck every step of **the** way to a table.  
Now that I’m alone, I push food into my mouth and give Bono little sneaky glances. He’s sitting alone as well. I briefly wonder where **the** rest of **the** band went, and then consider keeping him company.  
He gets up before me and leaves **the** room. I don’t know where he’s going, and my first instinct is to follow him. Then I stifle that idea- how much more of a stalker can I get? Well, maybe **the** change would be welcome, seeing as I haven’t spoken to Bono in days… Could I have helped that? **The** more I think about it, **the** sillier our distance seems.  
I finish my breakfast and return to my hotel room. One hand removes my brown ponytail while **the** other slides along **the** record cover of Zooropa. Perhaps **the** staff in Switzerland will allow me to play my music here.  
One elevator ride and ten songs later, I remove **the** needle from **the** lobby’s record player before **the** alarm at **the** end can go off. It’s a confusing sound, and I’d like more than anything to ask **the** band why they added it in. Was it supposed to be a statement, or a reference to something I don’t get?   
It’s nowhere near noon. There’s nothing else to do while I wait.I flip **the** record over and set **the** needle down.  
…How many times have I listened to Zooropa today? Are we approaching ten? I’ve pretty much memorized all **the** lyrics by now, and go to check **the** lobby clock before setting **the** record on its eleventh rotation. **The** staff in **the** lobby must be relieved. It’s time for lunch- I can feel **the** tightness in my stomach. I direct myself to my hotel room, carrying Zooropa along **the** way, and freshen up as quickly as I can before going downstairs again.  
Bono’s there, waiting in **the** lobby. He must have come in while I was doing God knows what upstairs. I cross **the** room and open my mouth to speak. **The** words flow into **the** sunlight- “Good afternoon, Bono.”  
“Greetings, Marieke.” He’s not calling me by my nickname. Is that a good or a bad sign? His eyes move over my head, to **the** location of **the** clock.  
“Am I late again?”  
“You never gave me a specific time,” I remind him.  
He pierces me **with** his gaze. “So I didn’t. Come on, let’s go.”  
 **The** restaurant is inexpensive and low key, **the** kind of place that I’m starting to realize Bono likes to eat out. **The** waitress takes our orders- it’s easy to decide a main course- and Bono produces a piece of paper and a pencil.  
“Who are we calling this time?” I ask.  
“A few people...” He looks preoccupied, as if his heart’s really not into this writing session. That’s somewhat of **the** way I feel… only I’m a bit more confused.  
“Marieke, are you angry **with** me or something?”  
I stare into his face. He’s looking back at me, unconsciously biting his lip. It surprises me how much he looks like a child- a slightly frightened child, eager to please. I’ve never seen that look on Bono.  
“Why would you think that?” I ask.  
His eyes dart away. “Well, you never explained why you left in **the** middle of **the** Paris concert.” **The** pause spans several seconds. His voice grows softer- “And you didn’t seem too enthusiastic to see me this morning.”  
I smoothly repeat an alibi off **the** top of my head- “I didn’t feel well and **the** music was not helpful. I had to go back to **the** hotel.”  
I watch him swallow my explanation without a word. Secretly it feels bad to lie to him- my friend and crush, my favorite rockstar. But I don’t want to tell him about my jealous feelings. It’s so stupid and nothing he would want to understand.  
       Then he asks, “You weren’t mad because I pulled Celine onstage instead of you?”  
       All my breath disappears. I struggle for air, and manage to compose myself with- “No, of course not!” He nods, accepting my words. He knows the truth.  
       “If you hadn’t left… I probably would have pulled you onstage for Love Is Blindness.”  
       “You… what?”  
       “Marieke, I asked you for Celine’s description because I was planning on finding her for Trying To Throw Your Arms Around The World, because she was near the catwalk. And don’t think I haven’t noticed your fancy for Mr. MacPhisto.” His voice is infused with a chuckle. “I knew you’d appreciate it if I chose you again. You were _right there,_ see…?”  
       I stare at him, closemouthed but mentally gaping. Why didn’t he let me in on this?  
       “I wanted it to be a surprise.”  
       My powers of speech come back- “That’s not fair. It’s not fair to dance with a girl you know. You need to let others have their chances!”  
       “Hardly fair, I know.” Bono drinks from his cup. “But how can I predict the actions of any woman? I’ve pulled you up twice before. I knew you would control yourself. But I suppose it is quite selfish of me. That’s why I chose Celine for the other song.”   
       I stare at my hands. The paper spread over the table lies at rest, a script unwritten. My head jerks up. “Bono? I don’t care who you choose!” My voice only sounds loud to me.  
       He nods, knowing that I do care to some extent, but not mentioning it. “I guess I shouldn’t be possessive of you. If you really don’t mind, Marieke, I don’t think I’ll bring you onstage anymore.”  
     Half the time it sounds like I’m an open book. Bono finds me too easy to read. He knows I’m jealous, but does he know why? No, not the full story. He’s only selected a few choice chapters from my volume. He’s trying to end what he thinks exists by keeping me out of the Devil’s arms.   
     “Is this a promise?” My voice shakes- how odd.  
     “A promise of what?”  
     “Are you promising not to dance with me again? You don’t have to do that…” Frustrated, I glare at the paper in front of me as if it will give me the words I want to say. If only we all read from scripts! “You’re not the one being unfair by choosing me. I’m unfair. I’ll sit backstage from now on.”  
     Bono says nothing.  
       He can’t explain to himself- heavens knows he won’t be able to make this girl understand. The few times she has sat in the audience, he’s felt a magnetic attraction leading his body to hers. It has happened since that very first show in Rotterdam, before he knew Marieke had a name. Bono can throw the bond aside during the main set, but when the lights go down for the encore and he sees her face out there- how can he explain it? He w _ants_ her. It’s as if his body is not his own. He wants her up there onstage with him. He wants her in his arms. It’s not something he can fight- it’s just _there_ , an invisible string that connects him to Marieke. And it’s so frightening… He’s considered trashing his persona and seeing if he no longer feels her, but the fans _love_ MacPhisto, especially now that Marieke’s put her own twist on him. Lost in confusion…  
     “Yeah, stay backstage,” he rushes. “That’s a good idea. I promise, you’ll never get another dance with the Devil.” _I don’t want her…_  
       I stare at Bono sharply. Of course I’ve expected him to agree with me, but is he really that opposed to pulling me up?   
       “Okay?” I don’t want to give in, but I was **the** one to suggest staying backstage in **the** first place.  
       Bono’s hand brushes **the** paper in front of me. “So, how ‘bout them phone call?” he drawls. Just like that, we’re back to normal.  
     “You’re silly,” I giggle, and take up **the** pencil.  
       Bono watches how deftly Marieke writes, as if she’s figured **the** whole speech out already. He gives her some background information and tips, and she uses them cleverly, without much more help. At once he begins to feel unneeded.  
       “Marieke?”  
       She looks up. “Yes, Bono?”  
       “Would you- would you like to write a speech by yourself? Do you think you can do it without my interference?”  
       What is he asking? Is this his way of making up for our awkward agreement on pulling up fans? I stare at Bono, trying to read his mind.  
“I would like to try it…” **The** idea does sound appetizing.  
“Of course I don’t mean this one. How about you try out a speech for me in Basel? We’re going there next…”  
 **The** way she looks at him! Her clear eyes convey so much emotion in one glance.  
“I can try,” she repeats. She’s not going to give him any promises, he can tell. Her hand flashes out, flapping **the** completed script, and Bono again notices **the** shiny bracelet on her wrist. She’s so stunning…  
“How’s this call?”  
       He takes **the** paper from her and reads it aloud, using MacPhisto’s voice.  
       She claps, and he takes a deep breath. “That was quite good…”  
 _I don’t love Marieke._  
Really? Who does he love?  
       She touches hands **with** him for a moment as he gives her **the** paper back, ready to point out what he does and doesn’t like about her words.  
 _I love Ali?_ Bizarre, but he hasn’t thought of her in days.  
 _I love…_  
“But I think this would sound better if you changed…”  
 _I love Ali._  
Certainty settles over Bono. Whatever he feels for this girl, it’s not romantic love. It can’t be. He’s already pledged his life to another, hasn’t he?  
Marieke blinks wide eyes. “You don’t like it? But I thought…”  
“It’s good, love, it’s really good, there’s just a small problem **with** **the** grammar.”  
Her face hardens. “Oh. I’m sorry. I’m not a native speaker.”  
 _I don’t love Marieke._  
       Even if that statement is true, his onstage connection **with** her can’t be ignored. If she stays where she belongs- watching **the** show from **the** wings- Bono will be less attracted to her. And if she writes all **the** MacPhisto speeches herself, he will see less of her during **the** day. Whatever connects **the** two, Bono needs to end it now before… what?  
                                                           ***  
       That was **the** most confusing conversation I’ve had **with** Bono to date. I feel like we’ve been arguing against each other when both of us know **the** other one’s right. Due to my hurting brain, **the** phone call we wrote isn’t my best, either. I’m almost scared to see it performed tomorrow.  
       How could such a simple conversation have seemed so confusing? Bono almost sounded as if he was making more out of his words than I heard. My memory fails on what our point was, but I can at least figure that there’s something he’s not telling me, and I him.  
       So now I’m in my hotel room, calling up **the** basic facts- I’m never going to be pulled onstage again because I’ll never sit in **the** audience again. And Bono wants me to write a speech all by myself.  
I take out a sheet of paper left over from our session and smooth it down over my knees. Can I write this whole call myself? Do I really know **the** character MacPhisto better than Bono? Well… I did like him before I took interest in Bono. There’s something there.  
       Maybe I should write a taxi call. Bono has helped me **with** that one before. I know **the** company’s reaction. But what about a call to an airport? That’s **the** experience that landed me a spot on tour.  
       What is it like in Basel? I start to ponder. If it’s anything like Lausanne, I think I know where to start. Picking up a pencil, I write _Off **with** **the** horns, on **with** **the** show _ over **the** creamy paper surface. Then I erase that and write it again in English. Bono’s going to have to be able to read his own speech!  
 _I know every single one of you even better than you know yourself! Last time you saw me I was 5 feet 8- now look at me, I’m gigantic._ I smile, imagining **the** exact way MacPhisto would deliver this line.  
 _It’s lovely to be here in Basel. All **the** people here are beautiful and speak very good English. _ I tap **the** pencil against my lower lip, thinking of what to say next. What would _he_ say- why would MacPhisto try calling a taxi anyway, if he loves Basel so much?  
 _Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to call a taxi to pick me up. I’m very tired and I want to go home._ I frown. **The** crowd won’t like that. They’ll boo at **the** prospect. I imagine MacPhisto taking notice, and hear him apologizing, telling **the** fans he’ll be back soon. That doesn’t seem quite right…  
 _Don’t get me wrong, I love you! But I live in Dublin, and that’s a long way away._ I smile. Yes, that is what MacPhisto would say. Then he dials **the** phone- _I do hope someone picks up-_ and then what? Will they pick up on **the** other end, or hang up **the** phone?   
_My name is Mr. MacPhisto and I’d like to order a taxi to take me from Basel to Dublin._ I grimace at his words. They aren’t even on **the** same continent! But where else does MacPhisto live? Maybe he’ll call a bad number that won’t pick up. That would be an easy resolution, then…  
 _They’ve hung up on me?_ I scratch that out. _Well. Goodnight, then._ I insert a PAUSE between those last two lines. Then I read my creation out loud to myself.  
It flows well, but could use **the** smallest hint of revision… I go over **the** script again, adding little dashes of taste along **the** way. Now that it’s done, I read it to myself again, testing my fake British accent. I don’t sound that much like MacPhisto, but in turn he doesn’t sound that much like a true British person.  
 **The** script is such a change from what I’ve written today that I want to run out to Bono and read it to him. Before I can, however, sense overtakes me. **The** delicious feeling of a surprise runs up my spine. Yes, let me astonish Bono **with** my genius. He’s going to love it!  
I decide not to attend **the** show tomorrow. I don’t really want to see how my speech is performed, and besides, **the** sooner we reach Basel **the** better.  
***  
And that day is today.  
I was right- Basel is quite similar to Lausanne. I explore **the** city **with** Morleigh at my side- one person who had agreed to come **with** me, since she had nothing else to do. I choose not to jog this time, and we begin a slow paced walk. Morleigh’s body moves gracefully, and I can’t help noticing **the** way her curls bounce **with** every springy step.  
Along **the** way we make small talk- “How’s **the** **dancing** going?”  
“It’s going well, thanks!. Every night I find some way to change **the** routine. It really all depends on Bono, if he’s going to stick to **the** choreography or not.” She smiles ruefully. I’ve learned by now that her job of choreographer means that she gets to plan Bono’s every move on stage- which of course he usually doesn’t follow.  
“But I’m in a good place now. There’s nothing I rather be doing than **dancing**.”  
“Feels like my job,” I comment. We round a corner, keeping pace. “I have to write for MacPhisto, and he tends to change things.”  
“Yeah, Bono’s that sort of person,” Morleigh agrees. “If he thinks of something he likes better, he can’t possibly keep from using it.”  
“He’s a… spur-of-the-moment man,” I decide, my voice hesitant on a phrase I haven’t used too much.  
She nods, and her hair flies. That reminds me, I need to ask for **the** hair curler again…  
I meet Bono once we get to **the** hotel and present him proudly **with** my script. “No arguing,” I tell him, placing **the** paper into his hand. “Tonight you’re only using my words.”  
Bono reads **the** speech **with** a guarded expression on his face. Now he lowers it and eyes me carefully.  
Something inside me is squashed. “What is it?”  
“Wait a minute.” He sits down and reads **the** whole thing aloud in his MacPhisto voice.  
I’m shifting from foot to foot by now. “So…?”  
“It’s great, Angel.” He lowers **the** paper to wink at me. Ah, so we’re back on friendly terms. “I would advise to change one line, though.”  
My face falls. “You said you’d let me write without your interference!”  
“No, love, don’t get offended. Just remember… MacPhisto and I are not **the** same person.” He reaches down to point at my line about going to Dublin.  
I raise my eyebrow. “Is that it?”  
“That’s it.”  
“Where does he live, then?”  
Bono folds his hands behind his head. He locks eyes **with** me. “Where do you want him to live?”  
I suddenly realize that this script really is completely of my own working. I can make up anything I like, and he’ll go along **with** it. A dangerous feeling creeps over me. **The** next time I write I’ll have to be careful about consistency.  
“Er…” MacPhisto is from Ireland, isn’t he? Except he seems to live in Britain... As I try to remember Bono’s first explanation of **the** character to me, a memory hits **with** strong force- _MacPhisto is like Elvis, like **The** Fly past his prime… playing shows in Vegas when he’s old and fat…_  
“Las Vegas?” I whisper.  
He laughs. “Vegas? That’s… brilliant.” He glances up at me, surprised all at once. “Yes… MacPhisto plays Vegas in his spare time. You remembered.”  
“I didn’t remember. I made it up,” I reply **with** a frosty sort of tone. He rolls his eyes briefly.  
“Keep this up and you’ll be getting a raise.”  
“Are you serious?” I laugh.  
Bono’s eyes smolder. “Would I lie to you?”   
I don’t respond. He climbs onto his feet and clutches my body to his.  
“See you tomorrow night. We’ll see how MacPhisto sounds **with** your words.”   
“Another test,” I grumble, my face in his shoulder. It would be so easy to lean in and press my lips right there…  
He steps back and I nearly fall over. “It’s a test you’ve studied for! Well. See you, Angel.” **With** one last wink, he’s gone. And I want _more!_  
 _***_  
Where am I right now? I’m being a good little girl like Bono wants me to and sitting backstage **with** Eric, watching **the** show tonight in Basel. **The** band is almost finished **with** their main set.  
“In **the** NAAAAME of love! One more in **the** name of looove! In **the** NAAAAAME of love… what more in **the** name of LOOOOOVE?”   
Bono grabs **the** microphone stand and pulls it upward, energized. Funnily enough, **the** song moves into a calmer section. He folds his hands behind his back and hums. “Mmmm mmmmm mm, mmmm mm, mmm mmmm, hmmm…  
“Early morning, April 4th… a shot rings out in **the** Memphis sky.” As Bono leans over **the** mic, **the** screens above his head bring up matching images of an African American man- Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., for whom this song is dedicated to.  
Bono glances up at **the** image, and sings seemingly at it- “Free at last, they took your life, they could not take your pride!”  
 **The** whole band nearly stops for a moment as **the** image becomes animated. Edge vamps on his guitar as Larry and Adam watch **the** screen **with** Bono.   
“Let **the** King sing,” Bono murmurs. **The** video speaks.  
“Like anybody, I would like to live a long life,” **the** famous man says, frozen in time. “Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I may not get there **with** you, but I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to **the** promised land!”  
“Amen!” Bono declares, and launches back into **the** chorus **with** **the** rest of **the** band. “In **the** NAAAAAME of LOOVE! ONE MORE IN **THE** NAME OF LOOOOOVE! IN **THE** NAAAAAAAME of love… what more in **the** name of loooove?”  
 **The** audience sings along **with** Bono and Edge- and Eric and I, but they don’t know we exist. “Oh, oh-oh oh… oh oh-oh oh… oh-OAH-uh-oh, oh OH-wah oh…”  
“In **the** name of love,” Bono sings, more like a contemplation now than anything else. “What more in **the** name of love?”  
He gazes into **the** audience slowly, and brings **the** song to a close.  
“In **the** name of love…” Every time I hear him sing this, even now, I hope that Bono will add some “Oh’s” to **the** end of **the** song, like **the** version found on Rattle And Hum. Unfortunately, I’m still waiting.  
At last **the** song is finished. **The** band exits on our side of **the** stage, giving a few waves to **the** cheering fans. **The** very last one in is Bono, and I grab hold of him and steer him towards **the** dressing room.  
“Hey, slow down, Marieke,” Bono gasps. “What’s **the** hurry?”  
“Just get dressed,” I tell him, rolling my eyes when he gives me a blank look. Someone’s a bit out of it.  
Bono brushes on **the** makeup as I hand him MacPhisto’s outfit. Before he’s put anything on, Bono raises his eyebrows beneath **the** face paint- “What are you doing so close?”  
I realize I’m practically sitting in his seat and back away quickly. “Thank you,” he sighs and finishes dressing. Eric is standing outside **the** door, watching **the** video confessionals onscreen. He’ll give us **the** cue to go onstage when they’re over.  
MacPhisto stands up, in need of his shoes. I scan the room and strangely do not locate them.     What’s happened to those gold boots?  
“Marieke, where are my shoes?” Already MacPhisto is speaking in a British accent. I shrug and dash to the door, ready to start a search.  
“Here!” A stylist rushes up holding MacPhisto’s shoes, and I take them, relieved, and promptly hand the last touch to MacPhisto. He instantly pushes the shoes on and leaves the room, with me gawking behind him. I want to ask MacPhisto something- but he’s too far away-  
“Lover, I’m off the streets!”   
       Too late now. I sigh and lean against Eric, needing something to support me but not wanting to shift my view of the stage.  
       Soon the song’s over, and my heart leaps into my throat before MacPhisto’s even finished the harmonica solo. Normally that would make me scream with pleasure, but I’m too nervous tonight. Will MacPhisto change any of my words in the script? This time I’d _really_ have to hurt him.  
       “Off with the horns, on with the show…” He times my words perfectly to his actions, reaching up and tossing the horns backstage with a flourish. Those arms… I want those arms around me… Too bad MacPhisto’s never going to let me dance with him again!  
       “Look what you’ve done to me. You’ve made me very famous, and I thank you.”  
         “YOU’RE WELCOME,” I call, my voice disappearing in the crowd.   
       “The last time you saw me I was five feet eight. Now look at me, I’m gigantic!” I automatically wish I’d left in that line about a white flag… or did I? It’s hard to remember now…  
       “I know you like your pop stars to be exciting, so I bought these!” Oh, whyever in the world did I leave that line in? Maybe I have a weird thing for those glittery boots?  
       The audience applauds for a long while, and MacPhisto smiles. He looks so pretty out there, the light illuminating everything from the sweat on his forehead to his white teeth, contrasted by the violent red lipstick.  
         Now he begins my speech, the words that make me so proud- “You have a lovely country here in Switzerland.”  
       Cue the cheering!  
         “I and my friends were out on the lake yesterday on a boat, it was lovely.” I wasn’t there, but apparently Bono had gone out on a lake yesterday, where h’d stripped and thrown himself into the water without any prompting. Come to think of it, I wish I had been around to see it…

         “We could drink the water, but we couldn’t swim in it.” Teehee. The crowd laughs too.  
       “Now I have to take some time out to rest, so I’m going to make a phone call.” Suddenly my words sound… a bit too clunky, fitting like a dress three sizes too small. I cringe as MacPhisto continues,    “I want to order a taxi to take me home, cause I’m very tired.” He moves over to the phone and presses the receiver against his ear. At least he’s infusing my words with the right amount of spirit…  
       The crowd boos.  
       MacPhisto looks a little abashed, and steps away from the phone to take the mic again- “Don’t get me wrong, I love you! I love you!” The audience rumbles happily to find that the star of the show really does care. MacPhisto gives a slight head nod as he says, “But I live in Las Vegas, and that’s a long way from here.”  
       What a man! How could I have known when I rewrote those words that they would fit MacPhisto to a T? What a sexy pop star he is! The crowd cheers. MacPhisto raises his arm a bit to call, “Goodnight!” And now, to my utter dismay, he runs back to the receiver- and Ultraviolet begins. _What about the phone call?!_  
         Eric notices that I’m steaming, and asks, “What’s wrong?” He sounds faintly hesitant, as if he’s afraid to know what’s bothering me.  
“ _That_ was wrong!” I hit Eric’s shoulder. “He should have called them!”  
         Eric sighs and tightens his arm around me, sensing that I’m about to leave him. We silently watch the rest of the encore, me fuming like a black cloud has rained on my parade.  
       Once the show is over and we’re backstage, I take off and barge in on Bono in the dressing room. He blinks up at me, a hazy look in his blue eyes. I see that he’s not done turning back into Bono, but I interrupt him anyway- “I wrote the call! Why did you cut it out?”  
         MacPhisto/Bono heaves a sigh at me and wipes the white paint off his face. “Wait just a minute, please…” The voice that comes out of him shocks me to obedience, for it’s not quite an Irish accent, nor British. He seems to have spoken unconsciously, using an unfamiliar voice.  
         I don’t know what else to say to the black-haired, beautiful man as he slowly regains identity- and it’s Bono at last. In his normal Irish accent, he asks, “What do you want?”  
 _Zooropa… Vorsprung Durch Technik…_  
“Er…” My voice wavers a little, and I weave on my feet. “Why did you cut out my phone call?”  
“There’s two reasons for that, love,” he tells me, turning around and giving me a soft smile- that doesn’t appear genuine? “First of all, don’t you think it’s a bit outlandish to say the least? We could have called a plane company and had more of a shot. They’d of flown me to Las Vegas in no time…” So he didn’t _like_ my idea?  
“Reason two. The show was in danger of going over, and we really wouldn’t have wanted to cut a song to fit the time limit.”  
“Those songs were meant to go together,” I say.  
He winks. “You are exactly right. And we wouldn’t have wanted to pay a fine for running overtime, would we?”  
I think that MacPhisto couldn’t have cared less.  
Bono presses my hand. “Is that good enough for you?”  
“Yes.” My voice is quiet, surprising me.  
“Then go and meet the creeper behind the door,” Bono says. I frown and breeze over to the entrance- and Eric is standing out here, looking forlorn.  
“May I come in?” he whispers.  
Ugh. “I’m leaving,” I tell him, and we go together.  
Bono stares after Marieke for a little while. She looks so happy to be with that man. Is there anything more going on between them than he thought?  
No. From the way Marieke shrugs her shoulder once Eric touches it, Bono can tell that she feels nothing romantically towards him. It’s obvious what Eric feels, however. Will Marieke be able to handle him?  
Now Bono groans. Why should he even bother? Marieke can take care of herself. And yet he can’t stop thinking about the show tonight… and how even when Marieke was safely hidden backstage, he as MacPhisto couldn’t help wanting her. That of all things has never happened before. What sort of man is he turning into? During encores, he can barely think for himself. And yet no one is less going through motions than he is.  
Suddenly a face appears at the door, and he stares in shock. The Angel is back, to… haunt him?  
       “Do I get the raise now?” Her lips move fluidly, her hands restless.  
       “Yes.”  
       She leaves with double the price.  
       I go out with Eric for dinner. He doesn’t ask me where I want to go, only takes me to a fancy restaurant and orders a booth for two. God. I’m hoping he won’t make this any more romantic than it has to be. And it doesn’t have to be romantic at all.  
         We settle down in our seats as a waiter takes our orders. I finger my pounds, no doubt with a feverish gleam in my eye.  
         “Feeling rich?” Eric gives a low chuckle.  
         “Yes, of course.” My words tumble out like water from a broken dam. “Bono paid me, and he gave me a raise! He gave me a raise because of my speech. It was perfect! He loved what I wrote! I’m a genius at writing these things. I’m the best writer _ever!_ ”  
       Eric peers curiously into my hair.  
       “What are you looking at?”  
       “Just checking to see that your head isn’t harmed from its swelling.”  
         We laugh simultaneously, even though I feel like someone has burst my bubble- or maybe that’s the feeling of my inflated head releasing air.  
         The waiter returns with our drinks, and we thank him and give our orders for food. Eric drinks from his glass and in lowering it says, “Marieke, I haven’t seen you in so long.”  
       He’s right. I’ve been keeping to myself most days, only seeing Bono if I have to see anyone at all- or, more recently, Jack. I lay my hand against his. “We can change that.”  
       Eric looks pleased indeed at the prospect, and inwardly I slap myself. Why do I encourage him? My heart belongs to… someone else… My fingers draw irritably against the condensation on my glass. Tonight I’ve chosen water to drink, my mouth unhappy with the tang of alcohol. Eric of course has something strong- he seems to enjoy getting drunk. I don’t.  
       We talk in low voices for a while, the candle in the middle of our table remaining unlit. I pray that Eric won’t take notice of that and ask the waiter to light it.   
         Shortly the waiter does return with our dinners. He sets mine on the table and allows Eric to take his meal, winking at me. Oh no, is he staring at… GOD. The nerve of some men. I fold my arms over my breasts, feeling angrier than I should be.   
         Eric notices this and says something in quiet Swiss, something that I feel isn’t too polite, despite the gentle tone of voice he uses. The waiter glares and walks away, probably off to tell his boss that “A customer was rude to me!” I hope the boss gives him a slap.  
     Staring out the window, I notice the dark night, the lights from passing cars. And as I slide my gaze onto a smiling Eric across from me, I truly wish that I liked him, felt _something_ for him. He’s been a nice man to me all this time.  
       But my heart is beating in my chest, beating strongly, voicing its love for another. I know Eric can’t hear my heart, but I don’t want to sharpen his ears. We fall back into a conversation, easy, natural as breathing, and untouched.


	24. Chapter 24

       My heart beats one word throughout the next days. _Mine, mine, mine…_ Because the more time I spend with Bono, the friendlier we become. It’s quite possible that I call him my own now. But my first priority is the tour- keeping up with Zoo TV and all its antics. I can’t drop my other friends for Bono.  
       On the day before we leave the last tour destination, U2 gives the Zoo crew some exciting news- Zooropa has been mass released, to an audience of over ten million. Bono is ecstatic- “They’re going to love it!” Edge tells me that Numb has charted 39 on the Top 40 in the US, and up to 10 in Australia. Not bad for such a boring song! I note that he doesn't mention Europe, however.  
       When we get onto a plane after performing in Verona, Italy, I yank Eric to me and ask him where we’re going.  
       “Rome,” is the cool answer. I stare out the window and wait for all passengers to load. “What day is it, Eric?”  
       He looks at his ever-present watch before answering. “It’s 6 AM on a Sunday morning.”  
       “But what is the date?” I ask.  
       He stares out my window, past my shoulder. “July 4th.”  
       We suddenly both glance at each other, grinning, and Eric says, “It’s American Independence Day.”  
       “Really?” I didn’t know that. I only know that there’s a U2 song called Fourth of July, on Lina’s album- The Unforgettable Fire.  
       “I’d be celebrating if I were in Miami now!” he says, his green eyes seeing the revelries unfold like a movie.  
       I settle myself into the plane seat as we are instructed to buckle seatbelts. “Do you miss it?”  
       He thinks. “Of course I miss my home. But I don’t have very strong ties to anyone there… do you miss your roommate and family often?”  
       Strange, they haven’t crossed my mind until Eric brought it up. I can’t say I miss Lina and my parents too terribly… the distraction of this new life of mine has driven all thoughts of home away.   
       We play word games until the plane touches down in Rome- and Eric keeps winning them, seeing as I’m not a native English speaker. His favorite is “The Green Glass Door,” the rules of which I can’t possibly understand. He gives up after a while to let me sleep.  
       Someone’s hand is clasped behind my hand, the attached fingers stroking through my hair. I can’t see who’s touching me, however, and struggle in his or her grasp. The owner of the hand tightens his or her grip, and I pull away to find that it’s Bono touching me- or is it MacPhisto? His lips are turned up in a devilish smirk, but he’s not wearing any horns. I press myself against him and thread my fingers through his hair, moaning softly. He takes my head in his hands and-  
“Marieke, wake up!” I am startled out of sleep by Eric’s call. Opening my eyes, I realize that I’m snuggled up against him, my mouth near the vicinity of his ear. Quickly I pull back from Eric, shocked.  
       “What was that?” Eric doesn’t look too happy. “You were mumbling stuff in your sleep- I think you said I Love You?- and you told me to come closer…”  
       “Not you,” I say, blinking and lowering my head. Way to embarrass the hell out of me.  
     “Well, whoever you thought I was, it must have been someone you really love!” Eric shakes his head. “You were practically biting my ear off.”  
I say nothing, keeping my face down. Shame washes over me- I wouldn’t act like that around Bono _or_ MacPhisto. I would never behave so unseemly…  
Eric’s voice tickles my senses. “Sorry I woke you up.”  
“S’okay,” I say, seeing clouds outside the window.  
Eric stares along with me. Then he exclaims, “We’re going to Rome!”  
“What’s your point?”  
He gives a nervous chuckle. “Oh, maybe I shouldn’t be that happy. I haven’t been a good little church boy these following years. What if I bump into the Pope?”  
His joking makes me laugh and relax, and we fall once again into soft conversation. I push my dream behind me.  
When I set foot inside the Hotel Majestic, my eyes are assaulted with beauty. The place is furnished nicely, with red walls. A few gold couches are set about to merge artfully with the wall’s color. It brings to mind a certain man I love. I turn to look for Bono so I can point out this surprising coincidence, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I searc **with** my eyes for a moment until **the** person behind me gives a tap on my shoulder, and I realize I’m supposed to go to **the** desk. Hastily I take my room keys and hurry away, thinking all **the** time about how wonderful it would be to spend time in **the** lobby **with** MacPhisto.  
                                                                       ***  
“Hello?”  
“Hello, Hollie… it’s me. It’s your father…”  
“Dad! It’s you!”  
“I called to wish you a happy birthday. Did you think I would forget?”  
“No, of course not! I haven’t seen you in ages.”  
“I know, Hollie. I wish I could be **with** you today. So how’s **the** day going? Got any good presents for a ten-year-old? Hard to believe you’re in double digits now!”  
They talk for a bit, Hollie’s voice chattering on and on about her birthday spoils while Edge listens happily for a while.  
“Well now, how’s your mother been treating you? How are Arran and Blue?”  
“We’re all fine. Do you want to talk to Mum?”  
Edge thinks. He isn’t sure if he wants to hear Aislinn’s voice again. She’d picked up **the** phone when he called and asked for Hollie, but no words had slipped from her lips besides, “All right.” Just listening to Hollie is making Edge long for home. Aislinn’s formal tone, devoid of emotion, would not help this at all.  
“No thank you. I just wanted to hear that you’re doing fine… I love you… bye-bye.” On **the** other end he can hear Hollie handing **the** phone back to her mother. Edge finds himself half-hoping that Aislinn will want to talk to him, but instead he only hears **the** clunk of **the** receiver being put down. Edge cradles **the** phone on his end and stares at **the** wall.  
 _There’s no way in hell you can go home now._ **The** entourage- band and Zoo crew- has just arrived in Rome. Edge has only now finished unpacking his stuff. He can’t go take a plane to Dublin, of all places.  
 _But I miss them._ So what? He’s missed his family on tour before. Every time, he’s reminded himself that _you’ll survive, it’s not **the** end of **the** world._  
Edge lumbers off to find someone who can distract him. He has a specific person in mind.  
***  
In **the** morning I meet Bono for breakfast, just like always. We set a time for a later rendezvous. He asks if I will stay to eat **with** him.  
“No, I can’t eat now!” Being in Rome is making me feel giddy. I want to jump up and down and explore **the** town and do all sorts of tourist-y things.  
Bono nods. “Okay. Makes sure you get something in that belly of yours, though.” He winks.  
Argh… that wink is giving me second thoughts. I’m torn between staying **with** this man or discovering **the** ancient city of Rome. Excitement wins over eventually, though, and I bob my head up and down and bounce to **the** door. Before I can get outside, I hear Bono call from behind me, “Rrrromaaa!”  
I laugh and scoot out. We’re in Roma this morning and there’s no way anything can go wrong.  
My body casts a long shadow against **the** curb as I exit **the** hotel. **The** rush of a car speeding past makes me glance up, startled for a bit. It narrowly misses running a red light, and I half laugh, half groan, thinking it could have been Bono in **the** car. For a July day in Rome, **the** weather does not disappoint. I tie my hair back **with** my hands, wishing I’d thought to take a rubber band **with** me, and start off in a vague northward direction, pushing through **the** warm air.   
After a while sweat slides like syrup off my neck and head, and I’m still nowhere near from finding **the** mythical Vatican. Unlike Eric, I’m not a Christian, nor have ever had any belief in God. And yet there’s something attractive about visiting **the** place- maybe it’s **the** lure and promise of standing in two countries at once. I stop my jog, pace myself evenly and try not to breathe too hard.  
It occurs to me that I could just ask for directions to **the** Vatican- if my Italian didn’t suck so badly. Next tour destination, I promise myself I am going to learn **the** native language! Another thought nags at me that what if **the** Vatican is in an obvious location and I become **the** laughingstock of Roma? No way I’ll let that happen. I must find it myself.  
Rome is not a small city by any means, so I begin to doubt I’m going to locate Vatican City within today. It’s worth it just to idly sightsee other areas. I stroll on by buildings, and hear a car alarm off in **the** distance.  
Finally, at **the** heart of my exploration, I find **the** City of Gold- okay, not really, but this place can be nothing but **the** object of my searching. I enter **the** second country **with** ease, my breath hitching when I realize I’m no longer in Italy. For fun, I stand **with** one foot inside **the** border and one foot outside of it.  
       Despite all my searching, I don’t stay in **the** Vatican City for as long as I’d like. I’m afraid more tourists will come and I’ll be written off as “one of them.” Besides, I don’t think I’m allowed to go inside **the** building. But as I stroll along **the** outside, shooing pigeons away, an indulging sort of plan begins to blossom in my head.  
     Later in **the** day, when I meet in Bono’s hotel room, I propose **the** idea to him, as casually as if I was suggesting he change a line in **the** MacPhisto script.  
He stares at me like I’ve asked if we could go swimming in a tank of sharks.  
I exhale. “Bono, it’s not a bad thought at all!”  
He’s still staring. “Where **the** hell do you come up **with** this stuff, Angel?”  
“Admit it. If I hadn’t mentioned it to you you’d have thought of it anyway.”  
Bono shakes his head. “There’s no way I could have come up **with** _that._ MacPhisto at **the** Vatican… are you sure this is a good idea?”  
“Of course. What’s more ironic than the Devil at the Pope’s house? And it will be good promoting for **the** second night in Rome and for Zooropa.”  
“Well, I guess I can see what you mean… we did release **the** album just yesterday.”  
“Right. And now you’re going to sell it, one way or another, and you’re going to go down to **the** Vatican dressed as MacPhisto. And you’re going to like every second of it.”  
“Are you going to hint at anything to come in **the** speech?”  
My moving hands, tying themselves in knots, freeze for a moment. “I don’t think I will.”  
     “Marieke? Would you like another raise in your payments?”  
     “Yes please.”  
                                   ***  
     Bono has suggested my idea to **the** management- it’s hard to think that there’s anyone higher in rank in **the** entourage than U2 themselves- and they gave us **the** go-ahead. We’re going to **the** Vatican on **the** day after **the** second night in Rome- tomorrow, July 7th, is **the** next show- and Bono will be permitted entrance to **the** Vatican where he as MacPhisto will travel **the** outskirts of Vatican City, cameramen following him to take some nice shots of the Devil outside the land of Catholicism. Bono makes sure to mention that the little project was my idea, and a glow of pride ignites in my belly. He also suggests recording a special video message for U2 fans to see as another Zooropa promo, and asks if we should do it at the Vatican. “No, no,” I say, thinking of the downstairs lobby in our Majestic hotel. “I know of a place you’ll like better.”  
Now, I’m standing backstage at U2’s concert, watching the Devil mount the stage and shout, “Desire!” Forget Holland, forget Portugal, forget every live audience I’ve ever heard- these Italian fans are surely the noisiest of us all. I’m filled with admiration for them and their cheering. Soon MacPhisto settles his platform shoes firmly back on Earth and says, “Ciao, miei cari bambini,” in that ever-endearing _British_ accent of his. Tonight I just want to forget any troubles that I have and watch my man perform.  
“Olé, olé olé olé! Olé, olé! Olé, olé olé olé…” He backs down a bit to listen to the crowd roar. “OLÉ, OLÉ!”  
MacPhisto starts to recite my speech- the cleverest speech I’ve written yet. Bono actually laughed out loud when he read what I’d written.  
“That’s a good one,” MacPhisto says, referring to the Olé song. “Football! It’s like a religion to you people of Roma. Am I right or am I wrong?”  
“RIGHT!” the crowd cheers. I feel like jumping into the crowd and hugging them all for being such wonderful audience members. Apparently MacPhisto feels like that too, because he can’t keep his excitement down as he declares, “I wonder how the Holy Father feels about that. What team does il Santo Padre support- Lazio? Or AS Roma?!” I know he wants to bounce up and down in those boots of his, and I know I’d join him.  
The audience shouts and chants something unintelligible- t’s probably in Italian. Whatever they’re saying, it pleases MacPhisto to the tips of his toes, and he asks, “Shall I give… shall I give il Santo Padre a call and see which team he supports? Shall I call him, on the telephone?”  
He needs no more than a resounding “YES!” from the fans. I squirm a little, trying not to break into dance.  
“All right then… I shall,” MacPhisto declares, raising his arm into the air and speaking with even more airs than he usually does, if such a thing is possible. “I believe he’s at the villa… Castela Angelo, something. Sant’Angelo. He’s there for the summer, you know.”  
As he speaks, he floats over to the phone and dials.  
The crowd starts to get a bit rowdy again- trying to give MacPhisto support- and he shushes them with a finger to his lips. Then he leans into the phone and sings, “I just called to say I love you…” The inclusion of this song in most recent phone calls was, for once, not my idea.   
“Hello?” he asks, this time unfazed, not displeased, waiting intently on an answer.  
“Castel Sant’Angelo,” a man answers. YES!  
MacPhisto ignores the crowd noise and asks, “Hello, is that the Castel Sant’Angelo?”  
“Yes. Pronto,” says the quick-thinking man.  
“Scusi- do you speak any English?” MacPhisto asks, trying out his Italian for the second time tonight.  
“No, purtroppo, no. Pronto?”  
MacPhisto isn’t going to let any obstacle stand in his way. “Well… do you speak any Irish?”  
I start laughing as quietly as I can make it, and the man says “No, no, no, so l’italiano.”  
“I would like to speak to il Santo Padre, if that’s at all possible,” MacPhisto continues, his voice a bit softer.  
The line warps the sound of the man’s response, and the crowd laughs. I shake my head to clear my ears.  
MacPhisto starts to falter, and I cringe. Oh no! Please don’t bring the energy in this stadium back down.   
“I, I, I’m just calling, really, because I hear he’s not well-“ The man on the other end cuts MacPhisto off. “Chi parla inglese? Chi parla inglese?” I’m guessing he’s asking if MacPhisto speaks English. MacPhisto listens with a guarded countenance as the man continues in Italian, and then finishes with- “Yeah, one moment please.” So he _could_ speak English after all!  
The audience laughs, and I laugh with them. I have a slightly giddy feeling, knowing that one more push will send me over the deep end of side-splitting hilarity. MacPhisto eyes the crowd and begins to sing, “You keep me hang-“  
“Hello?” a woman asks.   
MacPhisto looks a bit miffed that the woman would interrupt his song, and replies, “Hello.”  
“Yes?”  
“How are you? My name is Mr. MacPhisto…”   
“Mmm.”  
“… and I’m enquiring as to the health of the Holy Father.”  
BANG! He’s gotten the line dead-on. I wait for the woman’s response, stifling my laughter. The noisy crowd is impatient for the scene to unfold.  
“Uh… you, you would like to have… erm, a ticket?” No, woman, he’d like to know which team the Pope supports! Get it right!  
“Well, what it is, is- actually I have a much more serious question,” MacPhisto assures her. I snort. “I have a friend, who’d like-“  
“Yes?” the woman asks, once again cutting MacPhisto off. He does get interrupted a lot…  
“I have a good friend of mine, who’d like to have-“ What? Deviation of the script here. “- seek a personal confession from the Holy Father.”  
I’m aghast. MacPhisto’s really getting it big time. He’s even twisted me up here! I have no idea what’s coming next…  
Of course, neither does the woman. “Um… y-you… there is a mistake, this is, um, this is, urm, another, mm, oh, another place, you have to do another number. This is, err, Castel Sant’Angelo monument, so, mm, we… we can’t help you. You have to do, um, another- you have to dial another number.”  
Her words would sound great as song lyrics! Where’s Bono when you need him to write a song?   
The Irishman’s alter ego speaks instead. “Well, could I leave a message?”  
“Because you have to, to dial the number of the Vaticano, so you can… to, to do, to… to try to…” Amazing- I hear her laugh, as if apologizing for her bad English. MacPhisto takes pity on her.  
“You people of Roma, you’re so very kind,” he says. I’m curious- what is this building up to? The woman tries to say, “Yes, we-“ but this time MacPhisto’s the one cutting her off. “You’re so kind. I’d just like to leave a message. I’d just like to leave a message: my friend, Mr. Andreotti…” Who’s that? The crowd obviously knows. They laugh and cheer.   
“… would like to seek the personal confession of the Holy Father. He’s a lot to say. It won’t take too long.”  
You’ve lost me here, MacPhisto. Fortunately the crowd is laughing. Fortunately The Edge is playing the guitar riff for Ultraviolet.  
“Sometimes I feel like I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like checking out… I want to get it wrong… can’t always be strong… and love it won’t be long…”   
A wide grin spreads over his face.  
“Buono sera!”  
Cue an explosive laughing fit.  
***  
Roma. This was the best Zoo TV show I have ever seen. I run backstage and leap onto the first person I see. It’s Edge, and he looks just as happy as I feel.   
“Edge, Edge, Edge!” I say.  
“Marieke, Marieke, Marieke! What’s got into you?” he laughs, lifting me up and whirling me around before setting me safely back on my feet. I stagger back, stunned that someone can do that to me.  
A grin splits my face apart. “I’m. So. HAPPY!”  
“I think we can tell,” Edge says with more than a smile.  
I bend over for a second and try to get in control of my joy. It’s taking me over, bringing me up towards an intense high. I have to start singing- “And I have no compass, and I have no map! And I have no reason, no reason to get back!”  
“Popular song with her, eh, Adam?” I hear Larry say.  
“Of course!” I spring up to face him. “Oh, I’m so happy…”  
“You’re worse than Bono. At least he doesn’t literally bounce around!” Larry snickers.  
I realize I’m jumping up and down and instantly cease. That’s not befitting for a woman my age. My thoughts turn onto Bono- where is he, why isn’t he here yet? We need to go celebrate this awesome show together…  
And just as I’m thinking something along those lines, the door blasts open. “Hey!” Bono crows, looking excited himself. My brain can’t handle it, and I rush across the room and hug him.  
“Whoa! Hey there, Angel,” he greets me as my arms entwine around his body. “Oof! What are you trying ta do, squeeze the living daylights out of me?”  
“Of course,” I answer, nuzzling his neck. I feel him shift his weight uncomfortably. _Mine, mine, mine,_ my heart continues to beat. I want to shout it to the world- the fact that I love this man, and no one else.  
“Marieke? MARIEKE! Get off me, please!”  
I wrench myself away from Bono, my face burning. How could I have done that? For a few seconds I had been practically assaulting the man I love. And he shouldn’t know I love him in the first place.  
“Trying to make some love, eh, Marieke?” Adam grins. But Larry stays strangely silent, his eyes on my face. They burn with an intense fire, almost as scorching as Bono’s eyes, until he realizes I’m looking at him and quickly glances away. Hm. That man…  
Edge is equally quiet as he looks into the distance. Then- “Morleigh!” he cries, crossing the room in a few swift strides and opening the door to let the dancer in. This distracts me from my embarrassment, and I slink into a corner.  
Morleigh enters the room, her face buzzing. “Hi Edge,” she greets the guitarist. “Hi, Bono. Hi, Adam.” She kisses everyone on the cheek with an included one-armed hug. When she gets to me, she looks me in the eye and asks, “What’s wrong?”  
“Nothing,” I mutter, hugging her. What would she think is wrong with me? “Hi, Morleigh.” She gives me a calming pat on the shoulder and, with one final glance to me, goes to join Edge and Bono on the other side of the room.  
“Let’s head out of this place,” Adam suggests. “Rome has some nice clubs, doesn’t it?”  
Before Adam finishes speaking, Larry is shouting “Party animal! Party animal!”  
“So I’m shameless about it,” Adam shrugs. “Come on. You know who’s in town tonight?”  
“Why Adam, why didn’t you tell us?” Bono asks. “Naomi?”  
A grin splits Adam’s face. “Of course.”  
“Why don’t you call her to meet up?” Edge suggests, and with a smile Adam agrees. He leaves the room, and that seems to signal to the rest of the band that it’s time for them to go.   
“Edge, you coming with us?” Bono asks as he opens the door. Morleigh has her arm around Edge.  
“No, I think we’ll go join Adam and his girl,” the guitarist replies. “I mean, if you’re up for it, Morleigh…”  
“I’m up for anything,” she smiles. “I’m ready for a night on town.”  
“I’m ready for the laughing gas!” I laugh, and Morleigh giggles along with me.  
       “Lar? You coming with us?” Bono asks the drummer.  
     He shrugs his broad shoulders. “Sure.”   
       I catch up to Bono and Larry as they leave. Morleigh and Edge wave goodbye to me, and I wave back, tagging along behind Bono and Larry. Bono starts walking slower so I can reach him, and as I slide into place between Larry and Bono the latter smiles and ruffles my hair. I focus on breathing.  
       Before we can get out, Eric spies the entourage. “Hey Marieke! Hey Bono, Larry,” he greets us. His eyes, however, are only on me. “Going out?”  
“We’re just going for a spin,” Bono assures Eric. “Nothing you need to worry your head about.”     Larry laughs. Eric looks annoyed.  
       “Marieke, may I join you?” he asks.  
Bono speaks for me before I can. “Yes, certainly.” Eric goes onto Larry’s side, sneaking glances at me when he thinks I’m not looking.  
     The limousine parks outside a club, and we emerge from in just in time to see someone getting thrown out.  
       “Are you sure this is a good place for us?” I ask Bono.  
       He snickers. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”  
       Trusting Bono to know what he’s talking about, I enter the club. He heads off instantly, and before I can follow Eric slips his arm around my shoulders. I turn to face him and get caught in his green gaze, my mouth slowly falling open. Eric’s eyes snap open and shut, and he strokes the back of my neck with cool fingers. I can feel myself leaning into him- and suddenly Larry bumps us, breaking the contact between Eric and me.  
       “Want to dance, Marieke?” he asks, shifting his weight. I shrug, nod, and melt into Larry’s arms.  
       Larry isn’t a great dancer- he moves me around in a tight little circle. I enjoy the feeling of his arms around me, though. Beating on those drums all this life has left his arms strongly muscled. He turns his head, his blond hair scratching my cheek slightly. Larry really is cute. What if I’d fallen in love with _him…_  
       “Larry? You have a girlfriend, right?”  
He stops in his tracks.  
“Why?”  
“I’m just asking if it’s true.”  
       Is it the lighting, or is Larry blushing? “Yes, yes it’s true,” he admits. He lets go of me, and I stumble back, caught in a blur of moving bodies.  
       “Marieke!” A friendly voice ushers me over. I collapse over the bar with Eric, who places his hand over mine. “You’re just in time to order,” he tells me. I look blearily at my choice of drink and give the bartender my order.   
       He eyes me carefully, and asks if that’s really want? Shouldn’t I prefer something stronger? My hands curl into fists. I know my limit of alcohol consumption. What right does he have to comment on my choice? “No, I want…” My words change, and I find myself ordering what has got to be **the** strongest drink on **the** menu.  
       He nods and whirls off to serve us. Eric tries to talk to me, but I can’t concentrate on him while I’m feverishly scanning for Bono. What’s he got up to? Now I spy him at **the** very end of **the** room, talking to someone. I figure he can do whatever he likes. Maybe I’ll join him for a chat later.  
After drinking my choice, I realize immediately it was a bad idea to order it. The drink goes straight to my head, and I can’t think anything more. Eric leads me onto **the** dance floor and we start to groove it up. My head whirls.  
       The only sensation I can believe in is Eric’s hands on my back, shoulders, neck, butt… I stop him right there and loosen his fingers from my lower side. “Where’s Bono?” I can’t hear myself over **the** music, but somehow Eric manages to understand me. “He went over there, I think…” I follow Eric’s pointing finger, stumbling over my own feet a few times.  
       Bono is sitting by **the** bar, draining a glass. When he sees me, a smile comes over his face and he opens his arms to me. I rush into them and let him hold me tightly. Bono’s fuzzy Irish voice calls to me- “Angel! Where you been, love? I’ve been waiting…” I squeeze him and step back, trying to focus on his face.  
       “I was dancing,” I say. “With Eric.” Bono nods and motions for me to sit in **the** seat next to him. I do so gladly, and he waves **the** bartender over.  
       “Another one,” Bono says, motioning to his empty glass. “And make a special drink for **the** Angel of Holland!” He laughs, and I try to nod without getting dizzy. My hands end up on his knees. He looks at them and now at me for a moment, raising his eyebrows.  
       “You wanna go dance, Angel?” he asks. I shake my head no, suddenly trying not to puke. **The** bartender hands me a new glass **with** a smirk, and I down it without taking a second glance. Oh… now that was an _awful_ idea…  
       Trying to get my head straight, I ask Bono a question I had from **the** MacPhisto speech. “About **the** speech tonight? Why did you change **the** words? Who is Andreiotti?”  
       Bono stares at me as if through a heavily-tinted window. “Andreiotti…? You should educate yourself, Angel! He is an Italian politician.” He doesn’t give me any further explanation than that, and I suppose I’ll have to be happy with what I have.  
       I pant heavily, still trying to hold in **the** contents of my stomach. Bono drinks deeply and pulls me off **the** stool. “Come on! Don’t just sit there, let’s dance!” We move onto **the** floor.  
Every movement is not helping my sloshing stomach. Note to self- never drink alcohol on an empty belly. When I squirm, Bono just holds me tighter. If I weren’t drunk, I would be actually enjoying this. As it is, however, I just want to get away.  
       “Stop!” I gasp at last, and wriggle away from Bono’s arms. I just barely make it to **the** bathroom. I know I don’t have enough time to get into a stall, so I lean over **the** sink and wretch, forgetting to hold my hair out of **the** way. Great, now I’ve spoiled my favorite asset.  
       Outside, I look for Bono again, but I don’t see him anywhere. A flash of red hair catches my eye. Eric? I go tap him on **the** shoulder- and surprise, surprise, it’s not **the** Eric I know and love. **The** man jerks his eyebrows up, smirking.  
“Do you want something?” I realize that he’s speaking English… how odd…  
“Yes!” I cry, and throw myself upon him without thinking about my actions. “Help me find… Eric…”   
He’s staring at me oddly. **With** a jolt I realize I’m speaking Dutch. How did that happen…? He shrugs and leads me off. “Come, chill **with** us.”  
 **The** man takes me to a corner of **the** club undisturbed by moving dancers. He greets his friends, one of whom looks sideways at me. “What girl’ve ya got here?”  
“A friend. A new friend.” He pats my shoulder, and I draw away from him instinctively.  
 **The** friend looks unimpressed. “Well, let her join us. Here you go…” He hands **the** man I’m **with** a small bag of white powder. Wait, where did that come from?!  
Suddenly I’m backing away, spewing **the** words out- “No, no, I don’t want that…” They’re doing drugs in this corner. How did they manage to slip in without being checked?  
I turn and run far away from those men. “Bastards. Who let those pieces of shit into **the** club…”       An unseen obstacle trips me up, and I’m in free fall. The world goes black before impact.


	25. Chapter 25

     My eyelids feel like solid, unmovable iron. I can’t seem to lift them and discover what’s going on outside my head. Everything is red from the pulsing blood in my eyelids, and black from the weight descended on my chest. I’m aching all over.  
I don’t want to wake up. If I do the pain will become more defined. So I stay where I am- though I can’t move myself anyway- and feel for the warmth, the sense of life. Someone’s arms are around me.  
“It’s all right, Marieke. You’re out of it now. You’re perfectly safe at the hotel… I’m here for you…”  
The words dissolve into incomprehensible mumblings that my disoriented self can’t make out. Exhaustion sweeps through my limbs and I fall against the person’s body, wrapped up in my bed. Deep sleep soon takes me.  
“I love you… I love you… I love you…”  
***  
When I next awaken I’m alone in my room, fully clothed in my rumpled outfit from last night. Someone’s inserted splinters into my brain- I want to claw my skull open. At least no one’s turned the light on yet.  
I totter out of bed and sink down hard to the floor. What happened to me last night? I don’t remember a thing of it. Although judging from my migraine-like head pain, I drank a lot more than I should have. Did someone peer pressure me? I crawl over to my suitcase and manage to dress in something clean. I’m ravenously hungry.  
Outside my door, a shaft of light hits my open eyes. I groan loudly and look down at the wavering floor. Just get to the elevator… get to the elevator…  
It takes me a while, but I finally remember where I’m heading and punch the number in as the doors slide closed. Good thing I’m the only person in here. The elevator leaves my stomach behind, and I cough awkwardly.   
I step off at the first floor and make my way into the breakfast room, miraculously not collapsing in the process. I have no idea what time it is, but surely I can still get something to eat? Sitting down at a table, I rest my head on my hands. A man from across the room gets up and comes to me.  
“Eric?” My voice sounds hoarse.  
“Marieke.” He stands in front of me. “Are you feeling better?”  
“Better than what?” I ask, clenching my fist into my palm. “I’m starving.”  
With a nod of his head, Eric turns to get me something to eat. He comes back soon with a glass of orange juice and a sandwich.  
I tear into them hungrily, eyes closed, forgetting to slow down- it’s not a good idea to eat too much too soon, but I can’t help myself. I ask Eric what happened to me.  
“We went to a club after the concert and you got drunk and passed out. We brought you here,” he says, crossing his arms.  
All right. If that’s all that happened then I needn’t be concerned. But my memory isn’t completely blurry…  
       “I got lost from everyone else,” I say. “There were some men in the club taking drugs!” I’m not sure how to specify past that- the word “cocaine” isn’t in my English vocabulary.  
       “Really?” Eric sounds concerned. “I hope they were kicked out.” I agree and ask Eric what time it is.  
     “It’s past noon. 1:05,” he reads.  
     At the sound of that my heart jumps. “What?” 13:05… that’s not good.  
“You heard me,” he says.  
I spring to my feet, ignoring my body’s plea for rest. “We were supposed to film the video today!”  
“What video…? Oh, right, that.” Eric watches me snatch up the plate and glass, alarmed. “What’s wrong? They’re not back from the stadium yet!”  
At that statement I relax. Thank God… I want to be there when Bono films the video message for U2 fans of Italy.  
“Sit down and eat something else,” Eric tells me. He takes the dishware out of my hands and walks back to the place they came from.  
       I can’t help but look for a clock in the room. Where are Bono and the rest of the group? Shouldn’t they be back at the hotel by now? The filming of the special video message is supposed to take place at the hotel.  
       Eric returns with more food, and I down it anxiously now, eager to leave. My head still pounds, but I do all I can to ignore it. “Can we go to the stadium?” I ask Eric.  
       “I’d expect they’re finishing soundchecks for tonight,” he says. “Was the filming appointed an official time?”  
       I rise. “Not that I know of, but I want to go!”  
       With Eric holding onto my arm, worried that I’m going to fall or something in my weak state, I exit the Hotel Majestic. We walk down to a bus stop and catch the next one to the stadium. I haven’t brought anything but the clothes on my body; Eric thankfully never seems to leave home without money.  
       Down at the stadium, the place where U2 performed last night, Eric and I are greeted by Jack, of all people. He comes over to us and says hello.  
       “Jack, is the band still here?” Eric asks. He shakes his head. “They’re going back for soundchecks later today, but at the moment the stadium is empty.”  
“So where did they go?” Eric inquires.  
“Em… I think to the hotel, where else?”  
       “Dammit!” I hiss, and Eric squeezes my arm. “All right. See, they’re scheduled to film a short video thing today and Marieke wants to be there to see it.”  
       “The whole band?” Jack asks. He shakes his head. “Well, I guess I can’t help you any further. The trip down here must have been wasted. Marieke, rough night?” He gestures to me.  
       Does my ordeal show that much? “Rough night,” I growl, smoothing my hair down. The former bundle of curls are hanging limply around my face.   
       Jack nods. “I’ll join you folks if you don’t mind.”  
       We clamber onto the next bus that arrives, and of course by that time I’m freaking out. What if we don’t make it back in time and the group starts without me?  
     My fears are quelled when we reach the hotel once more. The lobby, once devoid of people, is now full of them, newly arrived from the stadium. Adam is strangely absent from the throng, but the rest of the band- Larry, Bono, and Edge- are milling about in separate corners of the room. I can see that Larry looks bored, and predict he’s not going to last for too much longer down here.  
Once Bono sees me, my disheveled state no longer seems to matter. It takes all my willpower not to meet him halfway as the singer exclaims, “Marieke!” and crosses the room to find my arms.  
     Bono’s looking chipper and none the worse for wear. I privately consult my faulty memory- he was pretty drunk at the club last night. “What happened?” I ask, indicating Bono’s wide eyes and bright smile. “Do you have a hangover cure that I don’t know of?”  
       “Yes,” he says, taking my hands. “Early morning wake up calls.” He leans into me, clinging onto my hands, and bumps against my cheek with his lips. I press my own against his, and we pull back, smiling at each other.  
     Until he groans. “Rude awakening, believe me! Took me hours to feel normal” I laugh, pulling back from him, and we break apart, my cheek tingling. Bono peers me in the eye, his scrutiny turning serious.  
     “Do you feel better from last night?”  
     I nod. It depends on what night Bono means. Is he talking about the part of the night where I was getting drunk in a club, or the part where I was sleeping off the effects? Either way, I surely feel more alive than I did when I awoke this morning.  
     Bono’s eyes tighten at the edges. “So that’s why you don’t drink much. You had how many- two, three?- and…”  
     I interrupt him. “I can’t handle too much alcohol in my system. Especially when I haven’t been fed.” Which reminds me, those tidbits of food don’t make much of a lunch…  
Someone taps Bono’s shoulder. It’s Paul, looking quite businesslike. “When do we want to start the filming?”  
“Oh, right now I guess, now that Marieke’s here.” I grin at him. “You know me too well.”  
“Better than you know yourself, love,” he tells me using MacPhisto’s voice. I am not so out of it to die at his tone.  
Paul backs away. “All right…”  
We scan the hotel lobby while Bono goes off to change into MacPhisto. Some people are fussing about lighting, looking for the right place for him to sit. Why don’t they use one of those golden sofas? The Edge comes up at my side while Larry sidles away. I knew he wouldn’t last.  
“Tell me this…” Edge looks on. “Why was Bono making such a fuss about you today?”  
My heart thuds. “Eh?”  
“He kept mentioning you while we were doing soundchecks. It was a bit odd. He couldn’t stop worrying about you… Do you think Marieke’s all right? When do you think she’ll wake up? What happened to you last night?”  
Hmm. This is very interesting news. It thrills me to know that Bono cares that much about me, but it’s very confusing. Why in the name of love would Bono be asking about me? Surely he’s got so much more on his mind. Why was I in the foreground of it?  
“Edge…” I sigh. “I got drunk in the club last night and passed out.” Embarrassment sweeps me off my feet. I can still taste the alcohol on my tongue- and suddenly I feel very, very sick.  
Edge’s eyes brighten, laughing inwardly. “Oh, that’s all that went on? From the way Bono was acting you’d think you were in critical condition. As if you would die if he left you!” Edge snorts.  
He’s gotten me even more confused. Once again- why would Bono worry so much about me? I’m not his freaking wife. What goes on in that man’s brain?  
I snap into reality, saving myself from delving too deep into my wondering of Bono’s motives. Out of nowhere, I stride to the gaggle of people who are still deciding on a spot for the videoshoot and point randomly at one of the golden couches in the lobby. “How about here?”  
The all look at me. By a moment of chance, the spot I’ve chosen is perfect for lighting. The gold of the couch mingles beautifully with the gold of MacPhisto’s suit, and the red walls would bring out his shirt beneath it.The well-furnished lobby is the perfect place for the last pop star.  
Edge hisses in my ear. “Brilliant, Marieke!”   
I only smile.  
Soon the video people are setting up, and I feel like the smartest woman the world has ever seen. “Say Edge, what did you do last night?”  
“I went out too,” he says. “With Morleigh, Adam, and Naomi. No one got into quite as much mischief as you.” I scowl at him, but he only laughs. “We had a great time.” He falls silent and I imagine that whatever else happened that night, he’s keeping it to himself.  
“How did the soundchecks go?” Not like I would have wanted to be there. I still start at loud noises, and if I’d been in the stadium when U2 was practicing my headache would have been monstrous.  
Edge winks, a feat which I’d thought was only reserved for Bono. “Let’s just say there will be quite the setlist shakeup tonight.”  
Before I can ask him what he means, we are startled by a loud cry of “Honey, I’m home!”   
MacPhisto whirls out of the elevator and comes towards the group of people clustered around the couch. “All right, let’s get see if this shit works,” he says, and I frown- that was in an Irish accent. MacPhisto is not The Fly.  
“We’re filming there,” someone tells MacPhisto, pointing to the seat on the sofa I’ve chosen. He nods and drapes himself over the couch. A gold Devil settled on a gold sofa- what could be more beautiful than that?  
       The camera is rightly positioned a few centimeters away from MacPhisto. MacPhisto kicks up his legs, looking very much like a tired old pop star. “Are you ready?” someone asks, and he nods his head. The camera rolls. MacPhisto leans forward, gazing straight into the film camera’s depths. I wonder what the special message for U2 fans is going to say. I certainly didn’t help to write it.  
       The Devil blinks once, slowly, and begins to read some lines off his memory. “They say, he who loves life loses it. But I say…” Here comes a dramatic pause. I couldn’t have written it better myself. He pulls his jacket around himself and finishes, “I say, hate your life enough and you can keep it forever.”  
       It’s over in one take. MacPhisto’s gotten everything spot-on, as usual. Edge is grinning next to me, and I whisper, “What is it?”  
       “Those were my words this time,” he tells me, and I’m amazed. Edge has a way with writing. “They sounded like something MacPhisto would say!”  
“Are we doing photoshooting now?” MacPhisto asks plaintively in his proper voice. The cameramen give an assent. They work with the stylist in positioning MacPhisto exactly right- and when the first picture is taken, it’s all I can do to stop smiling. MacPhisto is resting against the sofa, his platform shoes barely touching the ground. He’s curled around himself and basically looks worn out- as if he’s resting after putting on a show. I can’t wait to see the shot developed.  
They take a few more pictures, one with MacPhisto sitting right up on the edge of the couch, his hand under his chin, deep in thought. A knowing, truly MacPhisto smirk is curling his lips up. I want to swoon at that sight- or maybe it’s in part from my exhaustion; I’m obviously not completely recovered from my hangover. The angle they click the camera from is an odd one, and I know will suggest beauty when the photo is developed.  
MacPhisto flops back onto the pillows with a deep sigh typical of the man. I creep forward and set myself on the couch. MacPhisto looks at me with a glint in his eye.  
“How are you today, Mr. MacPhisto?” I ask.  
       “Just fine, thank you,” he replies, and suddenly throws both arms around me. I giggle and squeal just like I’m a child again trying to escape from her bear-hugging father. MacPhisto holds me as gently as possible, and I wind my arms around him too, feeling blessed to be this close to the man. We stare into each other’s eyes. His are a depthless pool of azure, and I can feel myself falling into it, breathless. I start to lean in.  
       “Ahem.” That one little word startles me and I twist around. “Should we leave you two alone for the moment?” Everyone is snickering.  
     MacPhisto lets go of me and stands up. “That’s a wrap for today,” the cameraman says, and he begins packing up equipment. I run along after MacPhisto.  
“I’m sorry,” I say, my hand disappearing into my hair. “I think I frightened you.”  
       “No…” MacPhisto blinks and becomes Bono. “Marieke… please, don’t get too caught up in any emotions you might be having. Remember, though I seem to be someone else, I’m really still Bono underneath the makeup and the clothing. Please don’t think that I will regard you in any different way just because I look different.”  
I’m… shocked. And hurt. Bono knows I’m in love with MacPhisto. He doesn’t know I fancy him, too. Will he ever notice? I don’t even know if I want him to.  
The floor swoops suddenly, and I waver on my feet. “I’m tired…”  
       Bono’s eyes close for a moment. When he looks back at me I’m startled to see… desperation? The emotion dominates his face.. But why? He looks nearly heartbroken. It comes to me now- which persona am I viewing in this one gaze?  
      There are so many words that could be said at this moment. But the next time either of us speaks, it’s only Bono to say, “You’re not feeling well. Do you have the speech for tonight written?”  
       The speech…! I’ve totally forgotten about that.   
Bono sighs. “Go get some rest. I’ll write the speech myself.”  
“But… you…” I won’t get paid this week, but that’s not what concerns me. I am concerned about how well the speech will go if I don’t have a hand in it.  
“It’ll work out, Angel.” He begins to leave, but stops and reaches out to me. His thin fingers caress my face, and I see MacPhisto in his expression. I close my eyes and open my mouth, and just like that, he’s gone.   
I go up to my room and hit the much-needed hay, mixed and confused emotions still whirling about in my head. I love him… I love him… I love him…  
***  
“Hello, you’ve reached the Hewson residence. We are out, but please leave a message.”  
“Hello, Ali… girls… I just called to say I love you, heh… and to wish Eve a happy 3rd birthday. Hope you treated her like a princess. I’ll see my three girls later, I suppose… not sure when we get a good break on tour, but you can always fly out yourselves. Well, goodbye… call me later, Ali… I love you.”  
Bono pulls back from the phone, wondering where in the world had Ali and the children gone when he needed to talk to them the most. A hole of missing fills him, but it’s soon wiped out upon exiting the room, as Bono throws the world a genuine smile.  
***  
“Marieke, wake up!”  
I groan, pulling the sheets over my head. Someone is pounding on my door, and it’s too noisy for me. Why can’t they just let me sleep…  
“Marieke! We’ve got to get down to the stadium.”  
With a little more prompting, I get up, feeling like I’ve been asleep for days. Afternoon naps always make me feel like crap when I wake up, and this one is multiplied by at least ten. Grumbling, I open the door to face an anxious Eric.  
“Is the show starting?” I ask.  
“Almost. Hurry! Don’t you want to be there?” He takes my hand and leads me out of the room.  
In the flurry of activity that the downstairs lobby yields, I spy a scrap of paper floating out the door. I grab it and ask, “Did anyone drop this?” No one has.  
I stop Eric for a moment to read the paper, hoping I will discover clues to the owner’s identity. Instead, a cold feeling climbs into my stomach and shoots up to the top of my head as I realize- this is MacPhisto’s phone call and speech. Bono forgot to take it with him.  
“Eric,” I hiss. “Give me your pencil.” He reluctantly obliges. I take it and ask him to go on ahead to the stadium. “I’ll be there soon.” With a worried glance, Eric finally leaves me.  
I lean against a table and begin to read. The words of the speech swim before my eyes, but the full effect has me smiling. This will be a good call. Now I’ll just touch it up a bit…  
When I get into the stadium, it’s packed to the brim with Italian U2 fans. I just barely manage to get safely backstage and find the band. It appears I’ve caught them in a lull between the last opening band and the main set. Bono stops mid-pace to stare at me, and gradually the whole band takes notice, calling off the rush of crewmen and women.   
       “Bono!” I hurry towards him. “You forgot the speech.”   
       He lets out a pent-up breath. “Thank God you’ve got it, Angel! I was afraid I wouldn’t remember it all.” He unfolds the paper and slowly reads it, his brow furrowing when he realizes the extra words.  
       “Marieke, did you meddle with this?”  
       “Yes!” I cry. “It’s my job. I’m paid to meddle with it!”  
       Bono reads the full speech aloud to the rest of the band, and to his and my surprise Edge, Larry, and Adam end up laughing.  
       “That’s great,” Larry says. “Marieke, you wrote this?”  
       “I fixed it,” I tell him.  
       Larry states what has already been established by Bono- “You’re a genius.”  
       “Thank you.” I smile.  
       “But like everything else, it all depends on the response and we don’t have the time to rehearse-“ Bono is stressed, flicking his eyes from the speech to me in seconds. “Marieke, what have you-“  
       “She’s done her job,” Edge says, defending me. And now Eric flies into the room- “Showtime!”  
     U2 leaves the dressing room, and I pray that Bono won’t get too nervous. Stage fright would be poor showmanship indeed.  
       And now I’m remembering that Edge has mentioned a setlist shakeup. If Edge’s tone spoke for itself, there is going to be a major change. Will they debut a never-before-played song or two, from Zooropa?  
       I stand at attention backstage, Eric at my side, and cringe often.The usually comforting visual assault of the TV screens on each side of the screen is now splitting my head apart. The sheer volume of the music from this location is squealing and painful, and I wish I had earmuffs.  
       Seven songs in, the show hasn’t experienced any severe changes. There was a snippet at the end of One that I’ve never heard before. But snippet changes aren’t drastic enough…  
       As I recover from New Year’s Day- the song still jolts me like a punch in the stomach even though Zooropa is my favorite song- Edge himself goes up to the mic. “We’re going to try something different,” he tells the noisy crowd. Bono has gone behind Edge to snag some water, and gives the guitarist a supportive smile. Edge continues, “This is a new song,” and the screens flicker, giving a hint of babble. For one second- one small, sweet second- I am tricked into believing they’re playing Zooropa. But Edge’s hands are moving up and down his instrument, blasting out those notes that signal the beginning of Numb.  
“Don’t move, don’t talk out of time, don’t think, don’t worry, everything’s just fine,” he says, mumbling the words rather than truly singing. The guitar punctuates his words. “Just fine…   
     “Don’t grab, don’t clutch, don’t hope for too much, don’t breathe, don’t achieve, or grieve without leave. Don’t check, just balance on the fence, don’t answer, don’t ask, don’t try to make sense.” Okay, I’ve got admit, that last line is pretty funny. “Don’t whisper, don’t talk, don’t run if you can walk, don’t cheat, compete.” He pauses. “Don’t miss the one beat.”   
All I can think as I stand here backstage is how much Lina would love this. It occurs to me that maybe Numb has been playing on the television in Holland for a while now. Has she seen Edge in the video and wished desperately to be there- to be in my place?  
     “Don’t travel by train, don’t eat, don’t spill, don’t piss in the drain, don’t make a will.” All right, all right, so Numb’s got humor going for it, at least. “Don’t fill out any forms, don’t compensate, don’t cower, don’t crawl, don’t come around late. Don’t hover at the gate…” But I would very much enjoy an awesome guitarist hovering at my gate.  
“Don’t take it on board, don’t fall on your sword, just play another chord.” He unintentionally smiles. “If you feel you’re getting bored…”  
       Bono and, to my surprise, Larry both lunge for their individual microphones. “I feel numb,” they sing. “I feel numb. Too much is not enough…”  
       And so I wait as patiently as possible for the song to be over. Numb goes over surprisingly well, given that Zooropa has just been released a few days ago. The band ends the song and Larry and Adam get to chill for a bit as the melodic section covers Satellite of Love. After that comes the next big surprise.  
       “I have climbed highest mountains… I have run through the fields… only to be with you.” Bono sings straight from his soul. “Only to be with you…”  
       They’ve done it again- played a song I thought I’d never hear live. I mean, I’ve seen it before, in Oviedo, but that was months ago. Once again, I find myself singing as loud as I can, swaying to that throbbing bass. Eric, who is with me, sings along- a first. He’s not that bad- at least not as bad as I am. I can’t hit the high notes for anything.   
       I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For and Numb- it’s almost too much to hope for anything more special. And yet I do, hoping that Edge’s implication spoke of more than just two songs.  
       The performance is over now, and I clap from backstage. Eric cheers. The fans in the audience drown us out, of course, and Bono can’t help but break into a huge grin at the feedback.     He gives a nod to Edge, and on that cue a guitar riff sweeps me off my feet.  
       No… it can’t be…  
       It is!  
       The drums of the song kick in, moving my body this way and that. I want to scream, but instead shout along with Bono the name of the song-  
       “I will follow!”  
       Cue the jamming. Adam swings his bass, and Edge practically dances backward with the guitar in his hands as if it’s a living thing. Larry is pounding away at those drums, those drums that I love so, so much… The song takes me back to the days before I met Lina, when I was 17, lived with my parents, and was just discovering that a band called U2 exists.  
       And what does Bono think? He’s looking more than thrilled to be playing an old favorite. “I was on the outside when you said, said you needed me… I was looking through myself, I was blind, I could not see…”  
       Edge takes it away, and I gasp at the perfection of his playing. Never mind that my headache is brought back full-force and I think I could pass out- it’s I Will Follow, for gosh sakes!  
       “A boy tries hard to be a man, his lover takes him by the hand… if he stops to think, he’ll always wonder why.”  
       Eric and I chant the chorus as Bono and Edge sing it.  
       “If you walk away, walk away , walk away, walk away… I will follow! If you walk away, walk away, walk away, walk away… I will!” Bono screams. “FOLLOW!”   
       Edge is just plain going to town on this song. I want to thank him and the band for keeping true to the oldest music of theirs. Eric and I rock out like the crazy fans we are..  
       Now my whole body relaxes as U2 begins Sunday Bloody Sunday. Oh, how I love this band… I love them, I love them, I love them…  
       Backstage Bono hurriedly reads over my improved speech while the video screens run through their nightly selection of confessionals. “Marieke… do you have any idea that what you wrote will work out?”  
       “It will work out,” I tell him, handing him his MacPhisto shoes. “Go out there and be a star. Be MacPhisto.”  
       Speaking of MacPhisto, wouldn’t it have been a better idea to show the video we filmed today onscreen instead of the confessions? Hopefully at the next show U2 will bring it to light.  
Bono changes and shifts into the Devil I know and love. And we’re out, and I’m following MacPhisto to the stage- but I don’t set foot on it. Instead I watch as he sings Desire.  
       We all know that the excitement of a second show in Rome is getting to us, as the band has added three songs for the occasion. And yet I’m not prepared for MacPhisto’s sudden onstage antics. In the middle of the song, he draws attention to a man in the crowd and his unsual date- a blow-up doll, used for only one thing. MacPhisto gestures to it and shouts, “She looks like my kind of girl!” He gives a cue to the band to bear with him, and they vamp on their instruments as MacPhisto creeps closer to the egde of the stage, murmuring to the doll, “Come on child…”  
The man hands over his friend, and MacPhisto takes it in his arms and dances in a circle. The rest of the band is quite obviously trying to disguise their laughter. About one minute passes before the dance ends, due to the poor doll deflating in MacPhisto’s grip. I expect he’ll fling it back to the audience, but hilariously enough MacPhisto’s face grows sad. “It happens to all my girlfriends,” he sighs, and drapes it over the end of the stage. “Do sit down…” The man reclaims his prize.  
“DESI-I-I-I-IRE!” He ends the performance with a series of sweeping waves and several cries- “What a night! What a city! Roma… Zooropa! Roma… Zooropa! Zooropa! My Zooropa.” Blessed silence covers the stage, but not the stadium.  
Now that that song’s over, MacPhisto laughs, and murmurs “All mine.” He fixes his sights on the Italians and begins. “Off with the horns, on with the show. My name is Signor MacPhisto. I also go by the name of Andreiotti.”  
The crowd laughs, and I shrug off the meaningless joke. That Italian politician must be pretty harsh, for the Devil to easily masquerade as him.  
“I come disguised as many things, and I’m particularly fond of show business,” MacPhisto tells the audience. I smile- he’s using my words. “I know you like your pop stars to be exciting. That’s why I bought these. Do you think I look funky?” he finishes, putting his shoes on display.  
An enormous cheer rises up from the crowd. They love MacPhisto almost as much as I do.  
“I have a very good friend whom I’d like to make a telephone call to. His name is Bettino Craxi.” I’d had to ask a hotel worker who this is- apparently some other corrupt Italian politician. Figures MacPhisto would be calling the likes of him.  
“Do you know him?” MacPhisto asks. “I believe he stays at the Hotel Raphael, shall I give him a telephone call?”  
“YEAH!” Of course we U2 fans are up for anything!  
MacPhisto brushes his arm in the vague direction of the money from Desire that is still falling to the stage after being shot out of a cannon. “I love to see money blowing in the wind. What a lovely sight that is. Now…”  
He moves over to the phone and dials. The sound of a chant arises from the audience. “Bettino! Bettino! Va fan cula!” I have no idea what they’re saying, but MacPhisto seems to understand. His eyebrows raise, internally holding in laughter.  
“Hello…?” A short burst of music comes in. “I love that. Playing my song.” MacPhisto improvises excellently- “Seem to have a bit of bother with the phone, shall we just try that again?” He moves his fingers over the phone, and I hear humorous lines that I’m sure weren’t intended for anyone else’s ears- “Ohh, let me see, I’ve hung up…”   
Eventually MacPhisto seems to have the phone figured out. He mutters, “Ah. Just double-check this. Six-eight-two, eight-three-one. Shhh,” he calms the crowd.  
Soon… “Raphael, Buena sera?” a man’s voice greets us.  
“Hello, is that the hotel Raphael?” MacPhisto asks unabashedly.  
“You’re right,” is the reply.  
“Thank you very much. I’d like to speak, if at all possible, to Signor Craxi.”  
“And who’s speaking?” the man wants to know.  
MacPhisto takes a page out of my book- “My name is MacPhisto.” Did he noticed that I’d erased his title on the script?  
“From where?” the man asks, wanting to interrogate MacPhisto further.  
“I- I…” he stumbles. “My country of origin is not of interest to you, young man, could you just put-“  
“No, you have to tell me absolutely because he will, he’ll like to know. But I can do it,” the man interrupts.   
Of course MacPhisto does not take kindly to these words. He glares, but his voice comes out even- “Can you tell him that-“  
The man cuts in irritably. “From where are you calling?”  
MacPhisto loses his fine temper. “I’m calling from downtown Roma!”  
The man mutters something confusedly.  
“And I’m calling to s-“  
Once again the Devil is interrupted. “I, I understand what you are calling- may I, can you spell me your name?”  
MacPhisto collects himself. “My name is MacPhisto, M-A-C-“  
“Yes?”  
“…P-H-I-S-T-O.”  
“Phisto?”  
“Yes.”  
“Okay.”  
This brief exchange of words makes me giggle. MacPhisto sighs, annoyed that it took him that long to get the man to understand. “And I’d like to get in touch with him concerning a very important matter-“  
“Hold the line,” the man breaks in.  
       MacPhisto opens his mouth angrily, but ends up just saying, “Thank you.” He eyes the crowd in a what-the heck sort of way. They laugh, and so do I.  
      Now his fingers curl pleasantly around the receiver. “Keep me hanging on the telephone…”he sings.  
       We wait, and the phone continues to ring. MacPhisto tries another song- “I just called to say I loved you…”  
       The phone keeps ringing, and he sighs. “Ohhh dear. La la la la-la… getting to know you, getting to know the things about you…” Click. Finally, someone’s picked up!  
       “Hello?” MacPhisto asks.  
       The woman who answers seems to be informed of who MacPhisto wants to reach. “Hello, I’m his secretary- what do you need from him?”  
       Surprised that she understands, MacPhisto answers, “I’m actually… I’m lea-“ Please don’t tell me he’s forgotten my words at this pivotal moment. “I’m ringing to give Mr. Craxi a warning.”   He got it right! Thank God.  
       “Yes?” the woman asks.  
       “Yes, there’s a man looking for him.”  
       “Yes?”  
       “Yes…” I’m getting sick of all these yes’s. “His name is Judge di Pietro.”  
       And… YES! I’d had to get a little more background information on people in Rome, but it was so, so worth it. So worth it to hear the crowd laugh at my punchline. But there’s more to it than that- why isn’t MacPhisto reciting the end? I remember writing more…  
       On the other end of the telephone line, the woman tries to speak. Unfortunately her voice is completely lost in the crowd’s cheering. Ultraviolet begins, and I groan- it’s too late now!  
       “Be careful…” MacPhisto murmurs, trying to recover from his temporary memory loss. But he can’t finish the line in time, because he has to sing.  
       “Sometimes I feel like I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like checking out. I want to get it wrong… can’t always be strong…”  
       He asks the telephone, “Do you hear me?” Maybe the woman hasn’t hung up yet, and we can try again.  
       “Love it won’t be long…”  
       I enjoy the encores just as much as any night- sitting through the emotional triplet of Ultraviolet, With or Without You, and Love Is Blindness as they culminate in the beautiful Can’t Help Falling In Love, a weary coda to sum up the whole show. And in this I notice a final change in set.  
       “I can’t live with or without you…” MacPhisto breathes. “With or without you.”  
       At last he can stop singing. Adam’s bassline thumps in my chest as for a minute all other instruments are dropped. My ears perk. Something’s different here. Edge isn’t hitting those highest, blinding notes on his guitar. The end has been rearranged.   
       He does begin playing again when MacPhisto opens his mouth. “And you give…” he sings. “And you give… and you give… and you give…and you give… and you give… and you give… and you give…”  
       What is this building up to? I expect to hear the guitar solo start. Indeed, Edge has begun a piece, but MacPhisto isn’t done singing.  
       “Yeah, we’ll shine like stars in the summer night. We’ll shine like stars in that winter light!” He’s singing over the solo, in pain. “One heart, one hope, one love… with or without… you.”  
       I leave Eric standing backstage and skip hearing the next two songs tonight.  
                                       ***  
       “I didn’t like it.”  
       “I didn’t like it either, Angel.”  
       We fall silent together, and I stretch my tired limbs out by pressing against the table. “Did you forget the end bit?” My mind evokes images of MacPhisto stumbling at the end of his phone call, and I know who’s to blame.  
       “Yeah,” Bono admits, and I sigh. “I’m sorry for changing the speech.”  
       “It was pretty flat anyway,” he says. “You at least gave it a dose of life. I actually can’t thank you enough.”  
       I nod, keeping my expression blank. “What do you find hard about writing speeches?”  
       “You’re asking me that?” Bono finds my words amusing. “Haven’t you thought of it? I’m not in the audience. I can’t get the full effect of MacPhisto. I need someone who’s watching to write these phone calls, so you understand how the character rubs off on people. You’re a fan. You know what you want to see coming from me and what you react well to. That is what’s hard… not always knowing what they want from you.”  
       The breakfast room is near deserted. All the crewmen are either loading up trucks for the drive to Naples or getting the van ready to take us to the Vatican. It’s pure chance that I’ve managed to catch this one moment alone with Bono. I shake my head at his insecurities.  
       “You… look at me. Bono, you have always known what fans want. You also know that not everyone can be pleased. This is not a problem. I’ve heard the words you’ve written on my very favorite records. I don’t understand how speeches and such can be any different.”  
       Bono closes his eyes. What does she mean? She wants to keep her job as scriptwriter, doesn’t she? Marieke can’t be urging Bono to write for her. She’s being paid for doing the opposite.  
       “Angel, I don’t understand you,” he states, which sums up most of his thought process.  
       “Okay.” Okay? How can she take his comment and turn it into nothing? Why do they continue to sit here and chew on words that have already been said?  
       “I think I should go,” Bono says, getting up.  
       “There is one thing I liked, though,” she says.  
       Bono halts in his movements. “Yes?”  
       “The end of With or Without You was different,” Marieke declares. “I liked that.”  
       “Oh, thank you,” Bono mumbles, playing back the new arrangement in his head. The ending certainly was a thing to be liked. He wonders if it should stay.  
       “Well, I really think I should go now,” says Bono. “See you, Angel.”  
       Her eyes follow him all the way back to the lobby.  
       I sigh once again, slumping over the table. Every time I try to spend some time alone with Bono, our conversation twists unpleasantly, and next thing I know he’s gone. It seems we can barely be left alone before something confuses us. Which one of us is driving the other away? Is there something wrong with me- does Bono see me as a clingy fan who wants too much from him?  
       How does she see me? Bono wonders. He halts a few feet from the main door. Am I spending too much time with her? Why do we interact past the phone calls? For it is possible that the two could only see each other during their discussions over MacPhisto’s speeches. He’s never spent as much time with a fan or a crew member as her. Which one of them is refusing to let go?  
       Some of the crewmen turn up inside, including Eric who is searching for me. “Hey Marieke!”  
     “Hey,” I answer, trying to hide my listlessness. “What are you doing?”  
       He stops at my table. “Just wondering- are you coming with us or going to the Vatican? Paul wanted a head count since he’s going to be with the crew and we need to know how many people are being left behind.”  
       “I’m going to the Vatican,” I answer automatically. Of course I want to be as close to MacPhisto as possible.  
       Eric takes my hand and we leave the hotel.  
       Outside, the entourage is still sorting things out. Some of us will be staying in Rome while others drive to Naples. When the trip is over, we’ll ride to Naples ourselves. The band is undecided, and Bono takes it upon himself to ask each one.  
     “Reg, Adam, you coming?” Bono calls. The guitarist replies in the positive. Adam makes a face. He’s obviously eager to get on the road.  
“Larry?” He shakes his head no, sharing Adam’s feelings. The rhythm section climbs onto the bus heading for Naples.  
       “I’m coming to the Vatican,” Bill pipes up, and a few other crew members- including a photographer for MacPhisto- give their word. Jack, I notice, is one of them.  
       “Eric?” Paul asks. Squeezing my hand, he answers with a head nod. Paul counts the amount of people going to the Vatican. “You’ve got a large group. Would any of you mind too much to move on?”  
       “I’ll stay with Adam and Larry,” Edge shrugs, disheartening a few of us. Eric looks at the crew and back at me. “I think I’d prefer to see Naples…”  
       “Then go.” Eric doesn’t have join me at all times. He nods and gets onto the bus. I stride forward, and Bono turns his attention onto me. “Marieke…”  
         I smile. “I’m coming with you.”  
“I knew you wouldn’t miss it for the world!” he laughs, and with those few, simple words our previous conversation is pushed behind us. That, it seems, is the way all things go. The whole group collects themselves and we board the van that will take us to Vatican City.  
         On the ride over, Bono chats with some crewmen while I gaze out the window. The bumps of the van are giving me yet another headache, worse than the one I suffered through all yesterday. Jack catches my eye and gives me a sympathetic look. I glare at him. He smirks.  
         All at once, Bono says, “I’m changing now.” We all look at him. He shrugs and removes his jacket. This prompts us all to exclaim “No!” and try to convince the van to stop. Jack makes a plea for my case- “There’s a woman in here! Do you really want to undress now?” No one notices that the woman herself is suspiciously silent.   
         “She’s seen me half-dressed before,” Bono says, which leads someone to ask what he’s been doing behind everyone’s backs. I explain about dressing MacPhisto, and we settle back in our seats after Bono decides he can change at the Vatican. Briefly I wonder what the passersby would think if they saw a half-naked man in our van. Oh, they know it’s only rock and roll…  
         We arrive presently at the Vatican, and I go outside to squint at the bright sun. Jack asks, “So what was the rough night you mentioned yesterday? No one told me what happened.”  
         I repeat the story everyone else knows by now- “I got drunk at a club and passed out.”  
         “Who took you back to the hotel?” he asks, a purely logical inquiry.  
       Good question! I really don’t remember the return trip… or getting to my room… and when I asked Eric about it he just said “we brought you here.” Who had been the first one to discover me? From the rambunctious look of the club, a woman passing out is quite mild.  
         I admit to Jack that I can’t remember, who accepts it, though there’s an odd look screwing about his eyes. What else have I forgotten from that night?  
         We take a walk into the mini-country, acting our part of amazed sightseers. Bono is changing in the van, which seems appropriate- the first steps he takes in Vatican City will be the steps of the Devil. I clasp my hands and look about the place, excitement upwelling from deep inside me. But even as I fidget, waiting for MacPhisto, one part of my brain is still wondering who took me home last night.  
       I can’t remember anyone going to the club but Eric, Larry, Bono, and I. There were probably more crewmen hanging there that I didn’t notice at the time, but that means they wouldn’t have been looking. I rule out Bono because he was also drunk at the time- the person who returned me to the hotel would have taken Bono as well. Now it’s down to Larry and Eric. Which one of them was the first to find me? It seems crucial to know. Strange that I’ve put back remembering it for this long, but yesterday was all a blur.  
       Just now I snap back into reality as the van door opens. The man who exits the vehicle isn’t Bono- no, instead it’s MacPhisto in all his glory. We crowd around him, asking where the photoshoot should start. The Devil smiles winningly and says- in a British accent, it’s definitely MacPhisto- “Just get those cameras ready.”  
We wander the Vatican, some of us following MacPhisto, others going off to explore on their own. I’m hot on MacPhisto’s trail, and thus I hear Bono speaking from behind the guise- “Can we get the walking stick for the photos?”  
I ask why he needs one, and Bono shrugs. “MacPhisto is old. He wouldn’t be out on a stroll without a cane of some sort.” I nod and wait for him to get back in character. Someone goes into the van to locate the prop he’s brought. MacPhisto places sunglasses over his blue eyes and takes a deep breath, becoming himself again. “It’s so dreadfully bright today…”  
The crewman returns holding an unusual stick. “Where did you get that?” I ask MacPhisto as he takes it in his firm grip.  
“The Hotel Majestic,” he answers. “They’ve gotten me nothing better than a curtain rod!” With that he wheels off and begins a walk around the Vatican.  
It’s wonderful to see the blank and puzzled looks of the Italian passersby, the ones who aren’t in on the ironic joke. The Devil roams with a restless eye, shooing birds in his path. I laugh out loud . Cameras click, and MacPhisto poses in various areas.  
Jack catches my arm. “Not bad for your first visit to the Vatican, eh?” I infer that he hasn’t been here before, because everyone knows that I was the one to come up with the idea. We giggle as MacPhisto sets himself in front of the fountain, smiling beautifully.  
I can’t help but think- I came up with all this. I proposed the Vatican trip in the first place, and Bono fleshed it out for me. But I was the visit’s inception, knowing that having MacPhisto in the center of Catholic religion would be too great a joke to pass up.  
“I could have had all of this, but I didn’t want it,” MacPhisto taunts himself under his breath. “It could have all been mine. Oh wait, I forgot- it is mine.”  
After being startled by MacPhisto, the pigeons are annoyed further when a cry rings across the sunlit area- “Mr. MacPhisto!” It appears the Italian U2 fans have finally caught up to us. MacPhisto himself is surprised and is cajoled into a brief autograph signing. It makes me very proud to see him sign the name MacPhisto instead of Bono.   
After moving away from the earnest fans, MacPhisto murmurs in my ear, “Let’s head out.” I agree and round up the others, who are sightseeing. Just before we get back on the van, I spy a surprisingly familiar face loitering outside the Vatican City.  
His red hair jogs a memory for me, taking me once again to the Italian club. I see, through a film in my mind’s eye, a man receiving cocaine from his friend. I remember that he had tried to draw me in and could have used me in any wild way. A flare of anger burns over my face.  
I stride up to the drug-addicted tourist, who blinks lazy eyes. I slam my foot down on his toes. A yell rings across the air.  
“Bastard,” I mutter, and stalk off to rejoin the crew.  
We enter the van and settle back down, buzzing. The driver swings out.  
As I sink into my seat, MacPhisto catches my eye and grins. I smile and twitch a finger at him. He turns backwards to talk to someone in the seat behind him.  
And now that the outing is over, my mind has time to ruminate on other things. I take myself back two nights ago and replay the entire event in the club- or at least what I remember of it. How was I finally found, and which man took me to the hotel?  
Recalling anything past the events in the club is like remembering a dream… or counting how many times you’ve woken in the night. I try to do just that. Surely there was a moment in the night that I broke out of my drunken stupor- a moment that I stirred, wondering where I was?  
And it comes to me, passing over my soul and mind, a faint flutter of a memory. A man’s arms tight around me, his voice hushing me back into sleep. Someone was in my bed that night- someone who may or may not have taken advantage of me in my state.   
Someone who loves me…  
I clutch tightly at the seat in front of me as the van goes over a bump. The unknown man’s voice plays over and over in my head. He told me he loves me! Who was it? I try to recall the accent- was it Italian, Irish, or American? Try as I might, the exact timbre of the speaker won’t come back.  
Of course he didn’t try anything on me. I’d awakened with the same clothes on as I had worn to the club. Was the man in my bed the man who brought me back to the hotel- Larry, Bono, or Eric? How could it be any one of them?  
I leave Rome with these questions still in my brain, my mind searching for the answers and drawing up nothing. He loves me… he loves me… he loves me…


	26. She's The Wave

_U2’s concert in Naples goes extremely well. Hyped up on Zooropa’s release and a frenzied crowd, MacPhisto sings “She wore lemon,” several times during **the** bridge of Desire. This time, however, he doesn’t sing **the** “shine like stars” extended verse, dropping it for good in favor of **the** “And you give…” new ending. Numb remains in **the** set as a way of promoting **the** first single. Marieke’s speech is as perfectly written as usual. She remembers a phone call made a while ago, a call to her parents, and asks Bono if she can go visit them between shows. He replies in **the** negative, telling himself that it’s too hectic to schedule such a short visit. However, his true reasons for holding onto her are unknown. He doesn’t want her to leave **the** tour for even a brief amount of time. Marieke ponders her secret admirer for no more than a few days. If he truly loves her, he will reveal himself to her sometime._  
After Naples, Zoo TV reaches Turin, Italy. I’m woken up on **the** bus by Eric, and we exchange a few words in a fond manner. “Are we at **the** hotel?”  
“Yes,” Eric tells me. “Let’s go and see what it’s like, okay?” We drop out of **the** bus and stare unhappily at **the** pouring rain.  
“You didn’t tell me it would be wet,” I say.  
“I thought you could hear **the** rain on **the** top of **the** bus ,” Eric replies, puzzled.  
“Oh, is that what that tapping was?”  
Eric shakes his head- not in a way of correcting me, but a way of expressing his disbelief. _That Marieke!_  
We go to see if **the** entire crew is here or if anyone needs help unloading their baggage. U2 has arrived ahead of us, but they are not in **the** hotel. I expect there’s some kind of meeting or interview arranged for **the** band today. Pity, because I haven’t spent enough time **with** them in Naples.   
Just now a bus door bangs open, and Morleigh steps carefully out. “Quite windy here!” she manages to say before **the** bus door closes and rain drenches her hair.  
“Why is Turin so dull?” I ask Eric. Every former tour location has been blissfully warm and sunny.  
He shrugs. “I guess it’s just a summer storm. Come on…”  
We make our way towards **the** hotel, Eric clutching his arm around me as if I’ll blow away. I’m less concerned about myself than for **the** paper in my hand. I’ve been writing a phone call idly during the bus trip, wondering if Bono will ever let me go back to calling taxis. As I try to cover it with my shirt, the wind snatches the paper and steals it away.  
       “Oh no!” A cry rises in my throat, and I yank free of Eric- accidentally dropping my suitcase on his foot in the process, but he doesn’t complain- and chase after the speech. Morleigh sees me struggling to get the paper back, and crosses the ground in longer strokes than I could make. Just as she reaches out for my phone call, her foot lands on a slippery puddle of water- she’s misjudged her distance. I watch with horror as Morleigh loses her balance- something I would never have expected from the dancer- and falls.  
Eric and I rush over, as do some other worried crewmen. I reach her first. “Are you all right?”  
         “Just wet,” she laughs. “Here’s your paper.” I take it back with a relieved smile and a word of thanks as Morleigh tries to get up. She accepts the request of Eric’s hand and allows him to help her stand, but shrugs off his offer to help her to the door of the hotel. “I’m fine, really!”  
       Despite Morleigh’s assurance, I follow her with my eyes as Eric goes back to get our suitcases. She doesn’t seem hurt- maybe walking a little less strongly than usual, but she has just had a fall- she wants to be careful. I push all my worries aside and join Eric in the hotel.  
       I receive my keys and ride up to the third floor, wondering briefly as to the look of my room. Surely it won’t be any different from my place in Naples. All hotels have become the same to me- expensive and polished. I’m sure it will be a shock to go back to sleeping in a flat with Lina on the couch. Lina of course will not welcome the fact that I get the bed again.  
       My clothes are sopping wet from that time in the rain. I smooth the paper Morleigh retrieved for me over my pillow, letting it dry. The bathroom door invites me, tempts me to undress and slide calmly into the shower. The warm water is like a lover’s embrace that I’ve been waiting so desperately for.  
       I ease myself out of the room and lie down on my new bed, remembering to remove the outer blanket and draw back the sheets first- though this hotel is five star, I’ve never fully trusted the sheet-washing service. My naked body slides across the mattress, and I practice a breathing exercise before standing up and changing clothes. After all this road travel, the clean clothing is gladly welcomed.  
       Downstairs I go for dinner. Eric’s waiting for me with a smile, and Jack solemnly nods at my presence. I laugh at him and mock-bow. Eric tries a curtsy, which ends up failing but gives me just the right amount of hysterics to set the mood tonight. Our threesome escapes from the hotel lobby.  
                                                                         ***  
       U2 arrives at the hotel when Marieke has already gotten in bed. Bono collapses in his room, not permitting the rest of the band entrance. “I’m tired,” he states bluntly. “Go to your rooms!”  
       Sitting himself down on the edge of the bed, Bono checks the time. It is 2:10 in Turin. He can’t remember what possessed him to stay up this long. _It’s a new day,_ he thinks, and a small knot of flame seems to settle in his chest. For some unfathomable reason, Bono is angry with himself.  
       _What time is it in the world?_ Time zones are not Bono’s strong suit, but he guesses that it is 3:10 in Dublin. Great- now it’s too late to call home. He’s missed his family since the tour left Rome- Ali had never returned his call- and was hoping he’s get some time to check in on them today. It appears that will not be the case.  
       _But I miss you,_ Bono thinks as he gets ready to sleep. He climbs into the bed with a deep sigh, not sure who the _you_ he referenced really is. All Bono knows is that he is tired of the Zoo TV Tour- a thought that scares him when he pursues it further. He curls around himself.  
       Bono’s missed his family many times before on different occasions. He’s always had enough fun touring to clamp a lid over the feelings. This tour has been one big party up to the moment, and by all rights Bono should be enjoying himself more than ever. Yet somehow, he’s felt more melancholy when left alone than ever before. Maybe it’s the fact that he now has two children at home- two more people to miss. Maybe the day is so fun-filled that by night Bono has exhausted all his good humor. Either which way, the nights of this tour are not the most pleasant time.  
 _Just a late-night attack of emotions,_ he thinks, and allows them to take him away. It’s important to sort out the different strands of feelings. There is anger- he still isn’t quite sure for what yet- exhaustion, and loneliness- three emotions that Bono can’t stand. _Go to sleep. It’s much too late._ The voice in his head sounds a little less like himself and more like the chiding tone of a woman- Ali, maybe, the closest thing to a mother he has.  
       Facing the wall, Bono’s deep breathing is soon the only sound to be heard in the room. He sinks gratefully into sleep, one final thought tugging at his subconscious before it drowns in a sea of forgetfulness. On the other side of the wall, a woman breathes in and out, dreaming of plans to be made and a date with the Devil.  
                                                                 ***  
       The morning rises like a hot-air balloon, spreading light out over the city of Turin and tip-tapping on windowpanes, trying to filter inside. Most shafts of the sunlight hit blinds and stay outside, gloomily denied entrance. But my window was left with the blinds up- thankfully not when I was dressing, however- and the beams of light hit my face as a pleasant way to start the day.  
       I jump out of bed and get dressed, wearing lemon once again- in honor of both the song and the sunlight. It looks like such a perfect day outside, contrasting the freak occurrence of rain yesterday. I pull on a pair of pants and slide my silver bracelet onto my wrist- it has become my favorite piece of jewelry by now.  
       I’m energized and stretch up and down while waiting for the elevator to arrive. Soon I get to ride it downstairs and sit down at a table to eat breakfast and wait for Morleigh at the same time. She’s agreed to go on another walk with me this morning. I suspect that if she doesn’t show I can always enlist Eric, though he won’t find the walk as entertaining.  
Breakfast is bacon and eggs- despite Bono’s complaints about scrambled eggs made in hotels, these ones are quite tasty. I drink some juice to top it all off. Now it’s time to see who’s coming down for breakfast. I’ve become a bit of an early riser these days.  
The crew comes down before the band, which is expected. Eric’s face is the first one I see, but then again, I know him the best- he’s always going to be the first person I spot in a crowd. We meet each other halfway across the room and exchange greetings.  
“Eric, would you mind walking with me? Morleigh isn’t down yet.” Secretly I’m a bit worried about her.  
“You mean go on a walk?” He laughs. “No thanks. You’ve already gotten me to go shopping- I’m not up for any more of your exploits.”  
“Have you seen Morleigh at all today?” I ask Eric.  
“Me? No, I just got up.”   
“But didn’t she come down with the crew?”  
“You know Morleigh- she does what she likes. Now if you really want to get someone to go walking with you, how about Jack?” Jack himself is coming towards us and overhears the comment. “What are you suggesting I do?”  
       “Go for a walk with Marieke. Your skin needs the sunlight anyway.” Jack manages to look offended but laugh at the same time- how does he pull that off? It’s rather bizarre. “I’d join you, woman, but really I can’t.” His voice turn apologetic- a tone that I can hear the lie behind. “I, uh, have to get breakfast first… and maybe there’s work to be done at the stadium, I’m not sure.”  
       “Great,” I mutter. Why are these men refusing to exercise with me? I can find no harm in going on a walk. Eric and Jack depart, but not before Eric calls over his shoulder, “Here’s your Morleigh at last!”  
       I scan for the woman, and when my eyes do meet her my breath catches in my throat. Morleigh is… not looking good. She’s walking in a sort of limping, hopping way, keeping her weight off her left foot. A mini flashback plays in my head- Morleigh falling down in the rain, landing on her left leg. Oh no…  
       “Morleigh!” I call, hurrying to her. “Do you need any help?”  
       She looks at me and I can see she’s in pain, but her words that escape are “No, not at all.”     Anxiously I watch her get to the table I was sitting at and tip herself into the chair with relief.  
       “I hope you weren’t waiting for me too long,” she says.   
       “Not really,” I say. “Is your leg hurt?”  
       She sighs. “Yes, it hurts a bit,” and I have the feeling she’s fibbing. “Walking might make it feel better, though.”  
       “Are you sure?” I’m no expert on human bodies, but I’m sure that putting stress on an injured area does not heal it. “We don’t have to go walking, you know.”  
       “Oh, you go on ahead,” Morleigh says, changing her mind. “Please don’t let me hinder you. It’s such a lovely day…”  
       Her eyes creep over my head and she gives a small wave to an unknown figure behind me. Turning around, I see Edge stalking towards us with food. He’s the first band member downstairs.  
     “Good morning, girls,” he greets us in a humorous way. I glower- “Girls? Come on, we’re not that younger than you,” and Edge gives me a kiss on the cheek. He sets his plate down and moves to do the same to Morleigh, which is how he notices her injury.  
       “Something the matter with your leg, Mor?” he asks.  
       “Yes,” she answers, reluctant to downplay it for Edge. “I fell down in the rain yesterday and the pain is coming back to bite me.” She makes a face.  
       “Well, let’s hope it feels better by tonight,” Edge says, slipping into his professional role.   “You can’t dance on a sore leg. Where does it hurt?”  
       Her fingers clutch a spot below her knee and above her foot, around the vicinity of her ankle. I don’t like the looks of that- what if her ankle is sprained? That would be no fun and could spell disaster for her performance tonight.  
       Edge lays his hand over that area and massages it. The action seems intimate in an odd sort of way. Morleigh groans. “Not too hard, that hurts.”  
“Do you think it’s…” I can’t give voice to the word I want, but Morleigh reads the worry on my face and knows what I’m asking. “I’m not sure. It’s probably not broken.We’ll just have to wait and see.”  
“Pain, go away!” Edge intones, running his fingers over Morleigh’s foot. She shifts her legs away from Edge’s touch. “Oh, you think you have the magic touch?” she laughs. “We’ll see.”  
“Have you got a replacement for Morleigh?” I ask, still concerned about her dancing tonight.  
“Have we got understudies for the band?” Edge replies dryly. I can see he’s not going to answer my question properly, so I stand with a smile and part from the couple. Morleigh gives me a smile in exchange, and I think that her injury can’t be that bad. Maybe she’ll feel better by tonight’s performance.  
I set my utensils down at the buffet where I found them and head to the elevator. Though a walk still sounds appetizing, I’d rather write a phone call than go alone.   
The elevator bings and the doors slide open on the right floor- and I am face to face with Bono.  
He speaks first, of course. “Angel of Holland, good morning!”  
“What are you doing here?” I gasp.  
Bono steps into the elevator. “Em, touring with the band U2 in a city called Turin- or do you mean, going downstairs to get breakfast? I’m starved, if we’re being honest here.”  
“No,” I sigh. “Is your room on the third floor?”  
“Yes, I’m in 3-15.”  
“3-13 for me,” I say.  
We stare at each other, and the only thing I can summon to my mind at this moment is _I’m alone in an elevator with Bono._  
Now the said elevator bings once more and Bono steps out through its doors. “First floor, right on time!” he exclaims. “See you around, Angel!”  
I punch in the number 3 and ride back to my room without any more distractions.  
                                         ***  
After receiving the required information from Bono, I manage to write an entire phone call for the show. Reading it over, I figure it could use some work, but I’m tired of that and want to go outside. It’s about time for the walk I never took this morning.  
I go jogging down the sidewalks, a freshly bought water bottle in my hand. It’s not too far a distance from the hotel to the stadium, and I think that maybe I can go over there and surprise Eric, Jack, and the band. And I can’t wait to hear the soundchecks! It’s better than listening to Zooropa all morning.  
Faint strains of music float in the breeze the closer I get to the stadium. The sound is deafening up close. Some fans have bunched together outside, listening in on the forbidden tunes. I tell the stadium folks who I am and am whisked away inside.  
The band is done with Even Better Than The Real Thing and Morleigh is giving pointers to Bono on one section. “Try not to yank that camera too hard! You don’t want to drop it, now do you?”  
She limps up the stage, and I wince, knowing she’s not recovered yet. Morleigh stares down at her leg for a moment with a look of loathing, not liking her body today. I draw closer in and bump into the people near the stage.  
     “Marieke!” Bono calls, spotting me. “Glad to see you.” I wave and say hi. He turns and speaks to the band for a moment, and now cues Edge for Mysterious Ways.   
     The scat singing that Bono sings over the intro is a heavenly sound. Edge blasts his guitar across the stage, the notes sounding purer than ever. He has to slam his fingers down on piano keys soon after, filling out the beautiful tone of Bono’s singing- “It’s all right…” CRASH. “It’s all right…” CRASH. “She moves in mysterious ways!”  
       Morleigh makes her entrance.  
       CRASH.  
       I watch concernedly. She hasn’t changed into her belly-dancing attire for the rehearsal- though it’s warm enough today for that- and instead dances in her jeans. She’s trying to go over the routine in an average way, but I can see her grimacing whenever she puts weight on her left foot. Finally, just after the first verse, Bono calls the performance to a halt.  
       “Morleigh, you’re not feeling any better, are you.” It’s definitely a statement, not a question. She appears to be debating whether to give him the facts or keep it low key, but Edge’s expression chooses for her. “No, not really.”  
       “You’ve not seen a doctor, have you?” Bono asks, his tone unattached, the question more out of concern for the performance than for Morleigh’s well-being. But I see Edge’s eyes, and I know that he’d be asking the question in a much different way had he time to speak.  
       Morleigh shakes her head quickly. “If I’m judging correctly it’s only a sprain- nothing worth going to a doctor for!” This last line is directed at Edge, who visibly relaxes when she tells him. I’m beginning to realize just how deep their friendship runs.  
       “So you can’t dance tonight?” Larry asks her.  
       Morleigh meets his gaze. “I’m afraid I can’t,” she admits, and I see how it hurts her to say it. She hates letting the band down.  
       “Oh dear,” Bono says, striding across the stage. “We haven’t got an understudy for you…”   
He appears distressed, and Morleigh’s face falls. She obviously wants to perform tonight more than anything. Seeing her makes a flash of guilt glance across my face. I was the one who let go of that paper, after all. And she had to run after it…  
       My hand shoots into the air, just like I’m a kid in school again. “I’ll do it!”  
The whole band stares at me along with Morleigh. “What?” Bono asks, intrigued.  
For once my voice is steady. “Morleigh, I’ll dance for you tonight.”  
“But you don’t know the routine!” Adam says.  
“But I can teach her,” Morleigh tells him. “It’s a good thought, Marieke. You’re not a bad dancer yourself.”  
“Thank you,” I say, blushing. “May we start now?”  
“If it’s fully possible for you to do it,” Bono shrugs. “Let’s see what you got, Marieke.”  
Edge helps me up onto the stage and Morleigh positions me in the right place. “I start out here,” she tells me. “Now, what you have to do is…”  
She walks me through her routine, helping me block. I doubt I’m doing a good job.  
“…And now you step onto the catwalk, and Bono’s standing above you,” Morleigh tells me, placing my hands in the right place. “When you turn, Bono’s going to hold his hand out. You move your hips like this-“ She sashays up, closer and closer to the platform where an imaginary Bono stands, taking care not to step too hard. “- and he’s going to reach out, and just before his fingers reach your belly, snap back and turn around, spinning away. You do this for another time, this time moving your arms-“ she demonstrates-“and then as you go for a third time, place your veil in his hand.” Morleigh waves an all-too-eager Bono over to let me have the full effect.  
It takes me quite a while to get the hang of it, especially with Bono’s hand tantalizingly close to my bare skin- and yet I eventually get it and spin away as Bono pulls back with an invisible veil in his hands. He smiles- “Good one, Angel!”- and Morleigh congratulates me. “Then you exit to stage left, and the dance is over. Think you got that? Good, now you only have to dance in time with the music.”  
My face shows my panic. “But we haven’t-“  
“Silly Marieke!” she interrupts me. “Don’t you see, this is a good way of letting U2 practice with us? Come on, let’s see how you do. I’ll show you the steps again.”  
It’s gloriously fun to dance on the Zoo TV stage and publically tempt Bono as he sings a song about the joys of women. I wonder what our chemistry must look like to an outsider.  
“You’re rather good at that, Angel,” Bono compliments me once the dance is over. “But then again, I always knew you were a good dancer…” I’m certain he’s referring to my escorts onstage with MacPhisto. “Speaking of which, have you got the phone call for tonight written?”  
“Yes,” I mumble. “I left it at the hotel.”  
He laughs. “You can’t expect us to rehearse Mysterious Ways all the time! Fetch that phone call.”  
I leap off the stage and ask Morleigh if she thinks I’ll do well.  
“You’ll be okay. I’m sure of that.” With a word of thanks on my lips, I slip out of the stadium to collect my speech for MacPhisto tonight. Nerves jangle in my stomach, and I’m afraid the only way to dispel them would be to perform tonight. Unfortunately, the show is a long way in coming.  
                                       ***  
It comes soon enough, however. All day long I’ve been nervous about dancing in front of the masses, but now I’m quelling my fears by thinking about those few times I’ve danced with the Devil. Was I nervous to be onstage then? Hell no. I’ll have to draw on Bono’s strength onstage to get through this dance, as I’ve done previously **with** MacPhisto. He seems to have unending reserves of **the** stuff.  
Backstage, Morleigh and I go over **the** routine again, until I am absolutely sure I have it all down pat. My shivering as I move attracts **the** attention of Jack, who’s watching- “Don’t be so nervous, Marieke, you’re going to do fine,” he tells me. Morleigh echoes his sentiment. “Just remember, there is nothing that can go wrong. You might forget a step here or there, but you know what **the** most pivotal moment is. Act on it, improvise if you have to. It’s **the** band that **the** fans will want, anyway.”   
Bono is pacing in his dressing room, wearing a hole through **the** floor. This is to be a night like no other. Marieke’s going to be onstage **with** him tonight and **the** prospect is frightening. Even in **the** audience, her presence draws him **with** immeasurable force. Now how is he supposed to concentrate on singing when he _wants_ her that much?  
Bono grinds his teeth together, which alerts Edge, who’s also in **the** room, that something is up. “You all right there?”  
“What?” Bono asks, snapping out of it.  
Edge shrugs. “You seem angry.” He lets his eyelids slide down halfway and gazes at **the** room in a new view. Perspectives are important, and Edge likes changing his own and seeing what is to be found. He’s already slipping into a tranquil mood, right before **the** concert.  
“Oh,” says Bono. “Sorry about that.” He turns and resumes his pacing in **the** other direction.  
“Would you quit doing that?’ Edge asks. “It’s messing up my focus.”  
“Your focus on what?” Bono asks, stopping himself in **the** middle of **the** floor.  
“I’m focusing on tonight’s show,” Edge says, closing his eyes all **the** way and tilting his head back. “Gathering up energy, so to speak.”  
Bono snorts. “You are so odd, Reg.” He crosses **the** room, promising himself not to pace anymore.  
Edge emits a low laugh.  
I stand backstage **with** Eric’s hand on my arm. I’m sure he can feel how twitchy I am. “Please, Marieke, just calm down for us,” he murmurs. “You’re going to be perfect!”  
“Am I?” I ask, smoothing my hands over my skirt. It’s not that I’m afraid I’ll misstep- no, my worries now are over my outfit. I know I’ve always had an amazing body- **the** stares and snide comments I’ve received from men about my looks over **the** years have surely gone over one hundred by now, especially after I joined Zoo TV. But I’ve never given them any pleasure in looking. **The** closest I have to being revealing are shorts and a tank top. But _this_ ensemble…  
How does Morleigh stand it? My belly is completely exposed and **the** only fabric over my breasts is a top reminiscent to a tankini. My skirt is long and wavy, but at least it clings tightly to my hips. I’m not sure if I would be able to stand **the** fear of it falling off. Thank God Morleigh and I are about **the** same size! A veil covers **the** lower half of my face, hiding me from **the** public. I haven’t checked a mirror, but I’m sure I look ravishing- _too_ ravishing. I’ve already caught Eric staring at me **with** unconcealed passion in his eyes. Jack has displayed that same wanting, and so have Larry and, out of all people, Bono. I hope that thought is enough to get me through **the** night.  
Mysterious Ways is **the** fourth song in **the** set, **the** song where I make my appearance. As soon as it starts, Morleigh whispers, “Go!” and squeezes my shoulder. At **the** end of Bono’s rehearsed scat singing, I take off onto **the** stage, calling back memory of my blocking **with** Morleigh this afternoon.  
However, I wasn’t expecting **the** crowd to be this large! I can’t see them too well in **the** darkness, but I certainly can hear them, screaming along to **the** song. **The** GA folks are especially noisy. I reflect on **the** fact that I was one, once, and concentrate on **dancing**.  
“Johnny take a walk **with** your sister **the** Moon… let her pale light in to fill up your room. You’ve been living underground, eating from a can. You’ve been running away from what you don’t understand. Love!”  
I twist to catch a glimpse of Bono’s face. He sings **with** pleasure, **the** shades off by now and probably in Eric’s hand. I’m careful not to let my gaze linger for too long on his leather-encased body and move my belly in what I’m sure is a sexy display. I’ll let **the** men speak for themselves, however…  
“She’s slippy, you’re sliding down. Yeah, she gonna be there when you hit **the** ground…”  
Edge sings along **with** Bono on **the** chorus. “It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right! She moves in mysterious ways!”  
“It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right,” Bono sings. “She moves in mysterious ways!”  
He strides up **the** platform at **the** back of **the** stage, rising above **the** rest of **the** band. To my horror I find that my dance is being filmed on one of **the** main screens. I’m gigantic! However, I do not enjoy that thought as much as MacPhisto enjoys it. Realizing that I’ll only feel self-conscious if I stare any longer, I twist my head away.  
“Johnny take a dive **with** your sister in **the** rain… let her talk about **the** things you can’t explain. To touch is to heal, to hurt is to steal…” Bono’s facing one of **the** screens, his back to **the** whole audience. “If you wanna kiss **the** sky, better learn how to kneel!”  
I bend down on my knees, raising my arms above my head in perfect timing just like Morleigh taught me. Bono sings, “On your knees, boy,” and lowers himself to **the** ground as well. I forget to breathe for a moment, but haul myself back up and spin.  
Bono’s back on **the** main stage now, and stares wonderingly up at **the** video screen **with** my body projected on it. I suddenly realize how apt this is- Bono exhalting women to a projection of an enormous woman. He half-murmurs, “She’s **the** wave that turns **the** tide. She sees **the** man inside the… child…” His falsetto reaches high, and he turns back to **the** cheering fans, holding his microphone out to Edge. Edge ducks away from his original microphone and leans into Bono’s offered one.   
“It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right! She moves in mysterious ways!” Edge’s eyes close and a wide smile breaks across Bono’s face. “It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right… she moves in mysterious ways!”  
A breeze teases my bare belly, and my automatic instinct is to cover myself. But I can’t let that happen… Finally I decide to drag my gaze to **the** crowd and see if they’re enjoying my performance. I’ll never make a good showwoman without looking at my fans.  
To my surprise, they meet my eyes happily, cheering for- who? Me? **The** band? It doesn’t matter. **The** last of my terror slides off me like water as I drive my body forward, for **the** first time pleased **with** **the** way **the** men’s eyes pop as they gawk at me, **the** way **the** women stare angrily.   
Bono is even more comfortable onstage than I am. He gazes over **the** audience and drifts over to Adam’s side of **the** stage as he sings, “One day you’ll look back, and you can see… where you were held, now by this love… while you could stand- there. You could move on this moment…” His left hand, **the** one that’s not holding **the** microphone, reaches out slowly and grips Adam’s shoulder. Bono uses **the** bassist as a lever to pull himself closer as he sings **the** next line- “Follow this feeling…” Now he spins away and holds his mic up to Edge’s lips. A bemused smile comes across Adam’s face.  
“It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right! She moves in mysterious ways… it’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right!” Bono sings in short bursts, his head coming closer and closer to Edge’s, until I can swear their foreheads are touching. **The** microphone does not protest against **the** contact. “She moves in mysterious ways! Oh…” He whirls away from **The** Edge.  
“Oh, love… oh, I need your spirit, baby, I need your comfort!” I begin to see why Bono gets so sweaty during **the** show. **The** lights of **the** stage are burning into my skin, and my hair is sticking to my back. Ugh… just great. Now I’ll have to take a shower to get myself clean.  
As one trail of sweat drizzles its way down my neck, I steal a glance at Bono, my favorite object of attraction. He turns on his heel at **the** moment and our eyes lock. It’s near impossible to look away. Time seems to slow down.  
“Move my spirit, take me… move my spirit, move me… move my spirit to me… move my spirirt, teach me…” He creeps closer. **The** fact that I’m moving hardly registers, that soon in **the** dance I will have to look away. Right now **the** audience falls away, and so does **the** ground. Second tick by like hours as I drown in his gaze.  
“To move **with** it… she moves **with** it… lift my days, light up my nights!” he cries, and breaks **the** invisible contact between us. I turn my back on Bono and sweep across **the** catwalk, lowering my head. Bono stands poised at **the** edge of stage, and sings his breath out in one word. “Looove…”  
I stand frozen **with** my hands over my head. My breath comes in pants, and I’m lightly stunned at how this one dance can leave me breathless. Now I hear Larry striking **the** drums to start **the** song again, and I turn as Edge’s guitar joins in. This is it- **the** climax of **the** dance. I must play **the** temptress and enrapture Bono. But how should I do that?  
My eyes latch onto my target. Bono stands close to **the** steps leading onto **the** catwalk, staring at me. I sashay slowly towards him, hands on hips, and Bono reaches out towards my stomach. Just before his fingers graze my skin, I snap back and whirl around, as Edge’s guitar slides into some fascinating notes and Bono explodes into a flurry of falsetto scat singing.  
 **The** volume of it is wounding my ears, and yet I turn back and face **the** music head on. Once more Bono’s hand stretches out, and again I deny him my touch. **The** singing grows more intense, **the** guitar fills my body until I am **the** music, I am life and I embody **the** entire performance. He can’t touch me. Like fluid lightning, I slam my veil into Bono’s hand and scamper gracefully away, my chest heaving, and I spin like a top, faster and faster-  
 **The** music is going at a different pace for Bono, who calmly walks across **the** stage, his back once again to **the** audience. **The** singing begins again- “She moves **with** it! Ya move **with** it! Lift my days, light up my night!” He suddenly turns, facing me in a split second before I dash backstage, and points a finger at me. I truly cannot breathe anymore.  
“Loooove…”  
As if his finger is holding me in place, I twist back when Bono drops his hand and race backstage, defenestrating Morleigh’s instructions to dance my way out. I’ve lingered a bit too long onstage, ensnared by Bono’s finger, and making up those moments are crucial.  
Backstage, I am greeted by an ecstatic Morleigh and a grinning Eric. Morleigh takes my hands and congratulates me over and over again. “You were splendid, Marieke. No one could have done it better.” One eyes snaps a wink at me. “Except **the** choreographer, of course.”  
Eric hugs me, and I stiffen. “I loved it!” he exclaims, and frowns as I wriggle away from him. “What?”  
“I’m hot,” I complain, wiping **the** sweat off my body. Of course Eric wouldn’t mind that, but it feels icky. I can’t wait to change back into my regular, less revealing clothes.  
Morleigh laughs. “At least you weren’t doing it in pants. Skirts are much less restricting…”  
“It’s not as if you dance in pants every night,” I say. I can’t imagine how sweltering that would be. Our conversation lulls, and **the** melody of One replaces **the** exchange.  
“Did I disappoint you, or leave a bad taste in your mouth?”  
“Were you professionally trained to dance?” Morleigh muses. I shake my head no. “I’m a fast learner.”  
       The music keeps up- “It’s too late tonight, to drag the past out into the light…”  
       “You’re a natural,” Morleigh declares. Her eyes glimmer with bubbly enthusiasm. “Maybe I should get hurt more often!”  
A blush is approaching my skin. “Come on, you don’t actually want that.”  
“No,” she agrees with me. “Only teasing. I can’t imagine anything I’d rather be doing. The stage is my home.”  
       Hearing her passionate words, I can totally relate to Morleigh’s point of view. She’s an artist, using dance as her medium. And how exhilarating the dance is…  
       In a few seconds it flows back to me- my heart pumping hot, singing blood through my veins as I make love to Bono without laying a hand on him, my soul running through the music to reach the man I love with the livid electricity blazing in each palm. The way I moved tonight exhibited a fierceness I am unused to. My high emotion was not dissimilar from passion.  
       With a jolt, the world returns around me, the ground steady beneath my feet. I’m alone now- where have Eric and Morleigh got to? As I sway, inexplicably exhausted, one man sings at centerstage.  
“You hear me coming, Lord? Hear me call? Hear me knocking, knocking at your door?”  
                                                           ***  
       Upon reaching Bologna, Italy, the band U2 plans for a lunch together the next day, ready to hang out for the first time in a long time. They select a restaurant and appoint a time to meet, excited at having some free time to spare as friends.  
       Edge arrives at the restaurant first, his head buzzing with guitar riffs. He’s left from the stadium after overseeing the construction of the Zoo TV set. After messing about with his guitar- what the crewmen would call soundchecking- Edge has decided to go for lunch early. He allows an Italian waiter to show him to a table for four, off in a corner. The waiter knows that the group of men dining here is the famous rock band U2, and acts a bit starstruck. Edge thanks him, refusing to order until the rest of the band shows up. He doesn’t fully expect to be recognized- the chances of meeting a fan in this restaurant are slim.  
         It’s a total of seven and a half minutes before the next bandmate enters. Adam, coming from the stadium as well, walks into the restaurant and waves off the waiter, spying Edge sitting alone at a table. He hurries toward his friend, twisting something around his finger.  
       The Edge blinks up at Adam, retrieving his gaze from the window. “What’s that?” he asks, nodding to Adam’s finger.  
       “Look!” Adam bursts out, holding his hand over to Edge. The guitarist takes it. _No, it can’t…_  
     The restaurant door bangs open and a familiar blond man enters, glad to rest from a jaunt around the city. “Hey,” he greets the other band members, ignoring the waiter altogether. “What’s Ad got?”  
     “I was just showing Edge,” the bassist beams proudly, and flashes his fingers in front of Larry’s face. Larry only needs to take one glance to know. “Well, when’d this happen?”  
       “In Marseille,” Adam answers. “Is Bono here yet?”  
       “No, not yet,” Edge says. “C’mon, have a seat, you two. Adam, congratulations.” Adam’s grin grows even wider, if such a thing is possible, and he plops down at the table next to Larry.   
       Half an hour later, a limousine pulls up in front of the restaurant, cluing the band in on the fact that Bono has arrived from the hotel. His casual stroll draws stares from the Italian people as they try to place that face in their minds- _have I seen this man before?_  
       “Hello,” Bono greets his friends, and promptly sits down. “So…” He removes his jacket and slings his arms back over the chair. “What’s happening?”  
       “Look,” all three of the rest of the band chime, and Adam shows Bono his hand.  
       Bono takes a good long look, and is immediately surprised. Adam’s left hand glows with the light of a ring- the fancy type that can only mean one thing. Bono quickly counts- yep, the jewelry item is placed on the third finger.   
       He meets Adam’s cheerful gaze. “You’re getting married?”  
     Edge and Larry laugh haphazardly at Bono’s conclusion, and Adam smiles. “What d’you think it means?” he states. “Of course I’m getting married, Bono. Naomi…”  
       “At Marseille,” Bono says slowly, remembering how the pair had met up after the show. Of course, he doesn’t remember too much after that. “Good news for you, mate!” The band repeats all their congratulations, and Adam swells with happiness.  
       The waiter zooms over, seeing as the entire band has arrived and it’s time for them to order. They each tell him in Italian what they would like to drink, and he hastily leaves, glancing a few times backward to see if the band is watching him. Unfortunately, they are.  
     “And here was me thinking you can never trust supermodels,” Larry comments, picking up the previous conversation. Adam laughs. “You know she’s different than the rest of them.”  
       “I can see the headlines now,” Edge murmurs, staring up at the ceiling. “Model Naomi Campbell Marries U2 Bassist Adam Clayton…”   
       Bono makes a frame with his fingers. “Extravagant Wedding Leads To Several Arrests.”  
       “Couple To Honeymoon In Siberia,” Larry pipes up.  
       “Why Siberia?” Adam questions.  
       Larry shrugs. “It’s remote, frozen, and we’ve never toured there before. What more do you want?”  
       No one can answer for laughter.  
       The drinks arrive at U2’s table, and Bono plays with his straw instead of taking a sip. Somehow he’s not feeling as jovial anymore. There seems to be something wrong with Adam’s engagement, but he can’t put his finger on it. Bono tries to summon up more spirit, but he can’t bring himself to it. Today’s a celebration for Adam and Naomi, and yet it feels false.  
       _Maybe it’s just your black confusion getting in **t** he way of things, _Bono thinks sourly. The problem lies entirely with him- there’s no denying that. He just isn’t-  
       Edge, noticing Bono’s preoccupation, gently nudges him back into the conversation with “Your drink’s not going anywhere, Bono.”  
       The singer drags himself back to reality with a jump. He tries retorting with “I’m not really thirsty,” but the damage has been done. Adam is snickering.  
       Somehow that sound grates on Bono’s nerves. “What’s so funny, Mr. Engaged-To-A-Supermodel?”  
       “Oh, nothing,” Adam replies innocently. Unsurprisingly, Bono’s epithet for Adam sends Larry into a brief giggle spell. “Remember, you’re still single. Engagement is nothing.” The other members of U2 know that Larry doesn’t think too highly of marriage.  
      “Really?” Adam asks. “I’m single?”  
       “Sure,” says Larry. “There’s married and then there’s single. You’re either one or the other.”  
     “That means, Bono, that you’re the only non-single member of U2!” Edge crows joyfully.  
       The other bandmates slap hands for being single while Bono wishes he could drown in his drink. _Just another way to brighten my day, guys._  
       Then Adam crosses the line. “Bono, you should join us in our single fiesta sometime!”  
       There’s a short titter of laughter from Larry, but it’s stifled as Adam realizes Bono has taken offense. Edge finds no humor in Adam’s delicately joking words. He knows that Adam was only getting caught up in the moment, but he shouldn’t have provoked Bono at a touchy moment.  
       “You’re advising me to separate with Ali?” Bono asks, incredulous.  
       Adam backtracks. “Oh, no way, I’d never suggest that…”  
       “It was a joke,” Larry says, sticking up for Adam.  
       Edge can’t speak for anyone. For one thing, it _had_ been a seemingly harmless joke and Bono shouldn’t take it seriously, but then again, Edge remembers his recent separation with Aislinn, his former wife. He can’t imagine the state Bono would be in if he split with Ali.  
       “Sorry,” Adam mumbles. Bono’s response is even less audible- “S’okay.”  
       The waiter returns from his long excursion with the band’s meals. Each member digs in heartily, even subdued Bono. In between bites Edge glances over at his friend, wondering if he’s the only one who is picking up on Bono’s bad vibes or if he’s imagining things. The truth is that Edge is a bit more perceptive to moods than most people. He hopes that whatever’s troubling the singer will clear up soon.  
         “So why’ve you come from the hotel?” Larry asks Bono, gulping his food down in the next second.  
       Bono shifts his food around on his plate. “Meeting with Marieke,” is his quiet response.  
       There’s a silence as his bandmates chew and digest both the food and the words, and now Larry is speaking again. “You’re meeting with her a lot, aren’t you?”  
       Bono’s eyes flicker. That tone in Larry’s voice- is he envious of the meetings?  
       Adam reaches across the table and punches Larry’s arm. “What’ve you got going on with Marieke, Mr. Mullen?”  
       “It’s nothing really,” Larry replies, reacting defensively. Bono feels his heart race. His throat is suddenly dry, but he can’t move to bring the drink to his lips. _What have Larry and Marieke been doing behind our backs?_  
       “You fancy her, don’t you?” Adam asks, trying to locate the problem. Bono starts until he realizes the words were directed at Larry.  
       The drummer ducks his head, a scarlet blush spreading over his neck. “Mmmmaybe.”  
       Adam hoots with laughter. “You can’t hide it, Lar!”  
       “All right, all right,” Larry mutters. “So I kind of like her. So what? She’s nothing compared to Ann.”  
       Bono finds his voice at last. “There’s something I never would have guessed about you, Larry. You and Marieke…”  
       “What can I say?” Larry murmurs, embarrassed. “Just look at the girl. She could have been a supermodel if she tried.”  
       Bono can find nothing to say to that because it’s too true. Marieke is a beautiful woman and there’s nothing wrong in Larry’s speculations. So why do his words make Bono feel bent out of shape?   
       Moving food around on his plate, Bono suddenly puts his fork down. “I’m going to the restroom,” he announces, standing up.  
       “Make sure you don’t drown,” Adam mutters to him, still the smallest bit miffed at Bono’s supposed hard feelings for him.  
       Bono gives Adam a dirty look and heads in the direction of the men’s room, his mind ablaze.  
       No one else in the restaurant has excused him- or herself, and Bono’s oddly thankful for being alone. He needs to think this over. Adam is getting married to Naomi, and Larry has a crush on Marieke? What sort of lovestricken mess is the band turning into?  
       Bono grips the sides of a sink, refusing to look up. In between breaths he concentrates on pulling his mind together, setting all the pieces in place. But he’s mixed up about what the pieces are.  
       There’s only one thing Bono can focus on at this moment. When Larry speaks of his taking to Marieke, there’s nothing Bono wants more than to smack that man. _But I don’t love her,_ he thinks wearily, all muddled up. _I don’t love her._ The words sound like a song he’s heard on the radio for far too long, a tune that has grown all too familiar and overstayed its welcome. Yet to the best of Bono’s knowledge the words are true.  
       Both wanting and not loving, not loving and can’t having anyway- Bono curses this woman who’s crept in on the scene and made his time on tour so much more confusing. Because though he knows- he has to know- that he doesn’t love Marieke, there is no disputing whatsoever that he wants her. That dance onstage…  
       Bono is suddenly transported back to Turin, when he had shared a stage with Marieke. As soon as her feet touched the stage, Bono was consumed by a frenzy of craving for her. It took more than enough willpower not to grab her, hold her in his arms and never let her go… And at the point where Marieke tempted him, baring her belly and daring him with her eyes to touch- Bono had very nearly complied, but it was only the cheer of the fans that reeled his sense back in, remembering what he should be doing.  
     “Ugh!” Bono whips his head up and stares at his own reflection in the mirror. “Why- why do I have to want her so _fucking badly?!”_  
       His voice rings in the silence. Spinning around, Bono swears again just for the sound of it. He waits for his anger to settle before thinking of anything more. When the rage dissipates, it is replaced by a bitter sense of loss.  
 _I miss her._ And this time it is not Marieke who Bono is referring to, but Ali. Damn. He misses his family so fucking badly. If only Ali were here… she would take his mind off Marieke. The thought of his black-haired beauty feels like a punch in the gut. He needs to call her today.  
       Bono switches the right-hand handle on the sink in the opposite direction and plunges his hands under the running water. A violet, dreamy tune plays against the backdrop of his mind, a song U2 have been working on, but one which was trashed from Zooropa. Bono recalls that both Larry and Edge had been very gung-ho about Velvet Dress, which leads to the suspicion that this song will take its place on the next album- if, of course, there is a next album.  
       The tune spins across Bono’s mind. Edge has completely finished a guitar part for Velvet Dress and helped Bono write a few lines. Now the song is gathering itself together in Bono’s head.  
       _We’ve been here before_  
       _The last time you knocked at my door_  
       _The moon was naked and cold_  
 _I was like a three-year-old_  
       _Who just wanted more_  
       _But if you wear that velvet dress…_  
 _If you wear that velvet dress…_  
       A pattering of footsteps startles Bono from his reverie. Turning, he wipes his wet fingers on his pants to face an Italian man, holding a booklet of paper and a pencil. “Signor Bono?” the man addresses him nervously.  
       Bono lets a wide smile break over his face. So there have been U2 fans in the restaurant after all, and taking after their old habits- following the lead singer into restrooms. “What can I do for you?” he asks the fan, pushing former emotion behind himself.  
The singer listens attentively to the fan’s chatter about how “Achtung Baby e Zooropa sono album davvero brilliante!” If the man notices anything different about Bono- a more intense look about his eyes, a shaking in his hand- he doesn’t mention it. Bono signs an autograph for him- really all the man wanted- and lets him leave with one final exclamation of “Io amo Zoo TV!”  
       With the smile still lasting on his face, Bono turns back to the sink and cools his hands again. He smoothes his face with clear water and cuts the flow off. _Why so serious?_ He asks himself. His hands slip into his pocket and draw out the Fly shades.  
       Bono puts his sunglasses on carefully and cracks a grin at the mirror. _Why so serious, why so maudlin? C’mon. You’re The Fly now…_ He exits the restroom.  
       “Took you long enough,” Adam says when The Fly approaches his table. “Hope everything came out all right.”   
       Instead of groaning like Bono would do, The Fly lets the joke glide off his skin with a smile. “Got delayed by a fan in there,” he says, sitting down in his rightful seat.  
       “I did see some guy walk out, looking way too happy to have just been in the loo,” Adam says.  
       The Fly answers, “Oh, you never know…” and proceeds with a disgusting remark that has Adam crowing with laughter.  
       The rest of the lunch is enjoyed much more now that Bono is using his alter ego. The Fly is sly and wisecracking, and can say many things that Bono himself wouldn’t dare. But from across the table, Edge is concerned. He knows that Bono only becomes another persona when he can’t deal with something the normal way- so what’s going on? Is his best friend all right?   
       Edge wants so badly to take Bono aside and ask him about it, but he can’t get him alone now. Adam and Larry are very much enjoying Bono’s conversion and would probably get in the way if Edge tried to have a serious chat. _That’s the trouble with having more friends than you can count,_ Edge thinks, and lies in wait for a private time when Bono is recovered from his moods.  
       On leaving the restaurant, a very energetic Fly entertains his friends. In the back of Bono’s mind, however, a song continues to write itself.  
       _If you wear that velvet dress…_  
     _If you wear that velvet dress…_


	27. In A Little While

       MacPhisto gets distracted as he performs onstage during the first night in Bologna. I giggle as he croons, “A ball _oon!_ How lovely!” and desperately tries to get the audience to bring the object to him. Desire is stretched out for a bit longer than usual, as it was in Rome when MacPhisto decided to dance with the blow-up doll. Once again I see the band suppressing their laughter and giving fond eye rolls behind MacPhisto’s back. MacPhisto’s wild attempts to get the balloon to the stage produce nothing, and at last he gives up and finishes the song.  
       “Look what you’ve done to me!” MacPhisto tells the adoring crowd. “You’ve made me very famous and I thank you. Do you know who I am?”  
       To my delight I hear several fans cry out “MacPhisto!” I settle back to listen to my words in his mouth.  
       “I’m a rock and roll star!” MacPhisto declares, looking tickled pink. “And I know you like your rock and roll stars to be exciting, so I bought… these.” Up goes the leg- gah- and out goes the shoe. _Thud_ goes my heart.  
       “Some people think that rock and roll started in the United States of America,” MacPhisto continues, “but in fact this is not the case. Rock and roll started in the streets of Italy!”  
       This gets a huge response from the Italian crowd as expected, and we have to wait for the noise to die down before MacPhisto can deliver his next line.   
       “Opera!” he exclaims. “Songs from the street, songs from the gutter, songs filled with passion- they sing their little hearts out.” He looks upward. “Pavarotti, there’s a rock and roll star! Shall I give Pavarotti a telephone call?”  
       The audience whoops and cheers. I smile at MacPhisto’s indulgent expression.  
       “You speak awfully good English. Shall I give Pavarotti a telephone call? Oh yes I shall,” he murmurs, a widespread grin breaking over his face. I cheer as MacPhisto goes to the phone, and the crowd takes it up.  
       Dialing fills the stadium, and MacPhisto tells the fans that “When you’re famous, people give you their telephone numbers. True- really! Off with the horns…”   
“On with the show,” I finish, reaching out to catch MacPhisto’s horns in a well-aimed toss.   
       “Tum te tum te tum tum,” MacPhist scat sings, drumming his fingers against the telephone table. There appears to be no response from the other end. MacPhisto acknowledges this- how could he nor?- with, “Shall I try that again? All right.” He dials once more. This time, I know, will do the trick.  
       After dialing, MacPhisto makes a surprisingly human gesture- he shrugs his shoulders and smiles a little haphazardly at the crowd. “I’ve got all night, have you?”  
       The honeyed question is met with a “YEAH!” I wouldn’t have expected anything less.  
       And now, almost as if on cue, a man’s voice on the other end calls “Pronto!”  
       MacPhisto launches into the prepared words- “Could I speak to the maestro, Pavarotti, please?” What he isn’t expecting is the half-sung response:  
       “I ammmm Mr. Pavarotti!”  
       The audience is so loud that Pavarotti has trouble asking, “Who is speaking?” and getting himself heard. However, kind MacPhisto, listening intently, can make out the words. “I just called to say I love you… I just called to say how much I care…”  
       As the applause dies down, MacPhisto asks, “How are you, maestro, this evening?”  
         Pavarotti has warm words for the Devil. “I am very well, how are you? I am sure of your fantastic success! How is the night going?”  
         “Well…” MacPhisto pauses to peer out at the crowd. “The people of Bologna are splendid the evening, I must say!”  
         As the people of Bologna cheer again, I press my hand over my heart. Here’s MacPhisto using my words to converse with a famous opera star, a man whose Italian accent is moving my soul. It’s almost too much to take in.  
         “They’re a great audience,” Pavarotti says now, reflectively.  
         MacPhisto clearly agrees. “They are-“  
         “They are great audience, because you deserve it,” Pavarotti cuts MacPhisto off with this compliment. I’d be truly touched if I were him. Somehow, though, I have the feeling that MacPhisto is a hardened sort of man, being the Devil and all. It turns out he’s more interested in Pavarotti.  
         “They are most generous. And how is the maestro’s voice this evening, is it in fine…?” MacPhisto questions the man with the concern of a singer knowing his trade.  
       “I am very good, yes,” Pavarotti assures him.  
       MacPhisto still isn’t sure. “I believe you’re losing a lot of weight, you’re slimming down for the 90’s!” he laughs.  
         Pavarotti laughs too. “Not so much, but I will try,” he tells his newfound friend. MacPhisto is not too quick to spout his own praise. “Well, I’d just like to say I love you the way you are!”  
         “I love you and all the people there!” Pavarotti exclaims. My heart swells with the crowd’s cheer. Once it dies he says, “And a big kiss for everybody!”  
       “Have you a song to sing us over the telephone lines tonight?” MacPhisto asks, slouching against the table that once held the phone.  
       “No, I, un- unfortunately not!” Pavarotti says, taken by surprise. MacPhisto laughs- a pure and real sound that I’ve rarely heard. It tickles my ears most nicely. Pavarotti continues- “But I, I, I… I wish you many, many… beautiful day like that, and beautiful night like that, with so many beautiful people there.”  
       I can sense the crowd getting ready to cheer, and I can tell MacPhisto does too. He throws up his arm- the fingers are twisted into the telephone cord, I see- and announces, “Well maestro, maybe one night you’ll join us on this fine stage and sing with us in person! How about that?”  
An opera star collaborating with a rock band? I wonder what sort of song that would produce. Pavarotti says, “It will be for me a great pleasure, and thank you…”  
       At this moment Ultraviolet starts. MacPhisto stills, remaining intent on the phone.  
       “…to have made the translation of the song Miserere- thank you, it’s beautiful!” Pavarotti finishes.  
       MacPhisto’s response is, “Sometimes I feel like I don’t know, sometimes I feel like checking out… I’ve got to get it wrong…” He asks the telephone-microphone between lines, “Are you there?” referring to Pavarotti.  
       “Can’t always be strong… and love, it won’t be long…”  
         And instead of screaming, he calls, “Good evening maestro!” down the phone line. And the guitar kicks in.  
                                         ***  
       Meeting Bono backstage, I ask him if he liked how the script I wrote went. He hugs me and says, “It was your finest yet,” which prompts me to kiss his cheek. Bono does not deny me the contact, and a whim overtakes me to go further than that, but I remember how MacPhisto had restrained my hands the first time I danced with him onstage, and I don’t follow through on the actions.  
         The rest of the band enters the room, and I’m pushed aside like a hovering dog. U2 makes conversation and congratulates each other on the show well done. The room is quickly filling up with crewmen and invited visitors alike. Sensing that this place will become packed to the brim in a few minutes’ time, Larry asks “D’you know where we’re going tonight?”  
         The others take the hint that it’s time to clear out, and ask if anyone wants to join us. Morleigh is not coming tonight, which disappoints me. However, Jack is one of the faces that nods and says “Yes” and Eric makes a wavy motion with his hand as if he can’t decide whether to come or not. I hope he chooses the affirmative.  
         Now Bono asks me in particular- only me, he’s not looking at anyone else- if I’d like to come. I know he’s asking in a detached way, but I can’t help seeking more than I hear in his words. “Yes, I’m coming,” I simper, loading my voice with sugar. Bono turns back, and I have to reproach myself. God, what do I think I’m doing? Chatting him up? It’s not gonna work.  
         A huge clump of folks leaves the stadium. We ride in a limo down to the planned club, and there’s a lot of laughter going on. I overhear Bono saying that he thought this was one of the best shows of the tour. I smile to myself.  
       We head inside the club ready for some fun. And I promise myself I won’t get drunk, even if someone pressures me. That is just not the way to go. I dance instead.  
       Bono sits at the bar with Edge by one side, the other band members having run off to who knows where. Edge looks to his friend in the light. Is it time for the talk he’s wanted to have with him? No, it can’t be when he has to shout over the music. And yet, when better will Edge get to talk to Bono? Never mind the possible spoiling of the celebratory mood tonight.   
       The singer, in the meantime, is working his way through a large drink taller than his head. Edge suspects he made a mean deal with the bartender to get something that heavy-duty. He prods Bono- prodding, not poking- and Bono stares at him as if he’s awakening, seeing Edge for the first time this morning. Or rather night…  
         The Edge smiles. “How’re YOU doing?”  
         Bono laughs. “Fine, thank you,” he answers, and sips the last of his drink. Edge hides his concern. “Well. Well, well, well, what did you think of the concert, Edge?”  
      “I enjoyed it every bit as much as you did,” Edge tells Bono. “I think I’ve taken a liking to the people of Bologna, like you have.”  
         Bono’s response is too low to be heard normally, and Edge has to strain his ears- “Or as Marieke would say, like MacPhisto has.” His eyes wander over to the dance floor, where Marieke is spinning in Jack’s arms. Once again Bono wonders at her ties to men. First she hangs with Eric, now she’s hanging with Jack, and she specifically fancies MacPhisto- though the last one can hardly count, seeing as she’s not shown any preference towards the man behind the persona.     Bono’s eyes twirl along with the couple. They’re laughing, a still life in the middle of the bustling club.  
       Edge catches Bono’s attention again with a few words. “So tell me. You didn’t really expect to get through to Pavarotti tonight, did you?”  
       Bono’s eyes do not pull away from the dance, but a smile opens his face. “Oh no, of course we expected it! I’d told Marieke to write a conversation for us because I knew Luciano was bound to pick up. What a lovely man.” His staring eyes glisten under the light.  
         Edge props his head between his thumb and forefinger. “”That was a brilliant call,” he agrees. “Funny thing is, I can’t imagine performing with that man.”  
         Bono’s eyes finally turn onto Edge’s. “Oh, that one’s a joke. But you never know… the idea could come back in a few years, we’ll see.”  
           They converse for a while longer, and Bono runs through another drink. Edge tries to delicately broach the subject he’s wanted to talk about since the day before. Unfortunately, he’s not quite sure what _exactly_ the question was, and Bono is ordering yet another drink. Sooner or later he won’t be able to think straight, and Edge’s opportunity will be missed.  
         “Bono?” he says quietly, hoping Bono can hear him over the hubbub of the club.  
         He does and leans in. “What is it, Reg?”  
         Edge swallows. “Em… just wanted to talk to you about something.” He isn’t sure how to go further than that.  
         “Well, shoot.” Bono takes a large sip from his glass.  
       Edge’s original thoughts are momentarily suspended. “Would you stop drinking for a second? It’s serious.”  
       Confused and a bit worried, Bono puts down his glass. Edge sighs and takes in an equally deep breath to replenish his lungs.  
       “A few days ago, at the restaurant… you didn’t seem very, well, happy. I thought something was wrong, and I hope I’m the one who’s wrong…” Edge sucks in another breath. “Are you doing okay?”  
         Bono stares at him for an inestimably long time, and raises his glass again.  
         “You know me- I’m fine.” He drinks.  
         Edge narrows his eyes. He does know Bono- and he knows Bono is lying. There’s no way to shake the vibes that he picked up on that day. Something is wrong on Bono’s end of the line, and Edge would so willingly help him if possible.  
       “Are you sure? Because you can talk to me. I mean, I don’t want anything to be troubling you.”  
       “I told you, I’m fine.” Bono stands up, his head spinning pleasurably. He should have remembered how perceptive his friend can be at times. Screw this. Who cares if he’s having random bouts of depression caused from homesickness and his mystifying relationship with Marieke? It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. He wants to forget everything tonight. Bono leaves Edge sitting at the bar and takes the drink along.  
         After dancing with Jack for an indefinite amount of time, I arrive at the bar parched, my date at my side. “Go fetch me a drink,” I instruct, and he salutes- “Yes, ma’am!” In the blink of an eye Jack is gone, and I’m left sitting alone here, brooding and celebrating delightfully.  
         A man is sitting down at the other end of the bar. I watch him with a wary eye, until I realize it’s Larry. “Hey, Larry!” I call, and he looks up and scoots down several seats. “Hey, Marieke.”  
       “Enjoying yourself?” I ask, and he nods. “I had a lot of fun tonight.” He appears to be waiting for more words from me, so I keep up the conversation myself. “That phone call- did you like it? I wrote it, you know.” The beaming is impossible to keep off my face.  
         “I know you wrote it,” he says, the twinges of a smile beginning around his mouth. “I liked it. You’re quite good at writing, honestly even better than Bono.”  
         “I didn’t truly think we’d get through to Pavarotti,” I confess. “But I had to write some words in case we did.”  
       “Was it-“ Larry begins, but is stopped by Jack returning with our drinks. “I got the mildest choice on the menu for you, Marieke,” he informs me. “Figured it’d be better.” I smirk. “And what did you get, Jack?” He peers into his glass. “Well, I’m not really sure what they called it… but it _smells_ like heaven. Bottoms up.” He drinks.  
         Now I’m comfortably sandwiched between two men, Jack and Larry, and having the time of my life. Maybe we can hang out back at the hotel- a party in my room would rock. Or we could all gather in Bono’s suite, the only place that could properly host a get-together. Speaking of which, where is Bono?  
         While Larry and Jack talk to each other around me- they make a good pair, the two quietest men I’ve met on tour- I search with my eyes and at last locate Bono at the back of the club. He is moving to the beat, and I gawk. Bono must have been the man who invented the concept of dancing badly.   
       “I’m going over there,” I announce, and Jack gives me a wiggle-of-the-fingers wave. “Bye, Marieke.” The drinks have certainly made him more sociable. I should remind him not to drink too much if he doesn’t want to get wild. Larry, on the other hand, is absorbed with watching me, and I can swear I feel his eyes on the back of my neck even as I walk away.  
         I’ve arrived at Bono’s side just in time to see one of the staff at the club approach him and tell him off in Italian. Bono just laughs. He’s obviously very drunk, and I nearly shudder at the thought of approaching him further than I already have.  
       The worker shakes his head and says something else in a firm voice, and this makes Bono get angry. He uses Italian harshly, and one of the last phrases I hear is “Va fan cula,” the words I heard the audience shouting in Rome when MacPhisto called Bettino Craxi. I begin to realize their sentiments were not at all good, and the Italian man is furious. He shouts something to Bono, something about how he can’t stay here, and the next thing I know Bono is being thrown out of the club.  
         I scan the club, surprised at how little attention this incident is being given. Maybe everyone else who joined us is preoccupied. I exit the club and find Bono staring up at the lights.  
       “Bono? Are you okay?” He comes over to me, inebriated and out of his mind. “What’re you doing out here? Get back inside!”  
         “I can’t go back, you’re out here!” I say.  
 _“Leave me alone!”_ His voice makes me involuntarily tremble.  
         The tone Bono uses remind me of a tone of voice I’ve heard plenty of times before- when Lina’s mad at something in the world and rarely wants to speak to anyone. When I do make the mistake of asking her a question, she reacts angrily and tells me to bug off, her tone suggesting that she’s been asked this question several times previously and is sick of having to answer. That is the tone of voice Bono has just used on me.  
         Just like with Lina, I take on a calm voice and say to Bono, “I’m not leaving you.” Where’s the limo? I assume the driver has parked down an alley and is inside, possibly as drunk as Bono is. I need to get inside and tell someone that Bono’s out here with me, but I can’t leave him alone here.  
         Finally the one idea occurs to me. It’s needlessly complicated, but it will have to do. I drag Bono around in my search for a phone booth, and step into one that’s about a block away from the original club. We jam ourselves into there, Bono complaining and trying to get out, but I close the door behind me. Instead of searching further, Bono turns his back on me and sulks. I’m so glad I haven’t encountered him drunk very much before. He’s impossible in this state.  
         There’s a phone book in here, thank God, and I look up the number of the club we were just at. My fingers insert the right coins and dial the number shakily, and a man picks up, greeting me in Italian. I ask if I can speak to Jack Stuart, and he covers the receiver with one hand and shouts the name. After a moment Jack’s voice pops in on the other end.  
         “Hello?” I tap the receiver. “Jack, this is Marieke. Bono got thrown out of the club. He’s very drunk. I’m taking him to the hotel.”  
         Upon hearing his name, Bono looks and me and frowns. “I’m not drunk. I’m _fine,”_ he stresses. It would have made me laugh if I wasn’t concentrating so hard on Jack’s response.  
       “Oh. That’s a good idea. I was about to head out myself, but I’ll let someone know that’s where Bono’s got to.” His voice turns low, a mock whisper- “God, it’s boring talking to Larry! Neither of us know what to say without you.”  
         “Give the conversation another try. He’s really interesting,” I say. “Like a chocolate bar. The wrapping is pretty but the inside is even sweeter.”  
       Jack laughs hard at my simile. “Gotta go, you must be running out of change. There’s a lot of things that if I could I’d rearrange. Have fun with your drunk rock star!” He hangs up.  
       I sigh and place my arms akimbo, looking at said rock star. My mind runs through the various things I could do to an elegantly wasted Bono in a phone booth- but I wouldn’t dare. “Come on, Bono, let’s go home.”  
       I move aside, and strangely enough he leaps upon the telephone, clutching it in both hands. “Get me some money,” he says, at once oddly alert.  
         I shake my head. “I don’t have any. Let’s go.”  
         “No-“ Bono insists, and punches in a number. I close my hands over his and gently pull them away. “I don’t have any money, Bono,” I lie. “It’s not going to work. Just let me take you home.”  
         “Home?” he asks. I paraphrase. “Not quite home, I mean the hotel. I can’t take you to Ireland tonight.”  
         Bono pulls away from me and hits the door of the phone booth. “Get me OUT!” He’s enraged, and it’s scaring me. What could have happened in the club that made him drink so heavily- and behave so awfully?  
         “No, Bono. Not yet. I have to make a call.” I insert some more coins, feeling like a hypocrite, but I know I can’t be letting Bono call anyone. The number of a taxi service is easy to look up in the book. I order them to bring a taxi around to the street we’re on, and the receptionist answers that a car is coming as soon as possible.   
         Once again I go to face Bono. He stares hungrily, wrapping his arms around himself. “You lied to me,” he realizes.   
         “We’re getting out of here,” I answer. “It’s okay. I’m letting us out now.” My hands motion to the door.  
         To my surprise, Bono protests. “Fuck! I don’t bloody want that…” He suddenly grabs me, all flame and hot anger, me all chilled to the core, an icicle in the monster’s hands. “Damn it. Damn you,” he hisses, and leans in to kiss me.  
       Our contact only lasts one second before I twist out of his grip, pushing myself away from him. “You. Out of the booth. NOW!” I shriek, my voice loud and high-pitched. We wrestle our way out of the phone booth and I plant my feet firmly on the ground, latching onto his jacket with an iron grip. We wait for the taxi.  
       Despite my furious reaction in the phone booth, my lips are tingling with the touch of Bono’s own. I can’t believe it… he kissed me. Did he mistake me for Ali, or… does he love me? Does he really love me in the same way I do? I can’t imagine that. Why, oh why did I push him away? We could have kissed for a much longer time…  
       A lemon car parks in front of the curb. I shove Bono into it and climb in myself, paying the driver and telling him the directions to the hotel. He nods, knowing the place I mean. Bono has slumped over and is now leaning against the wall of the car. I buckle his seatbelt in and the driver takes us away. At least the rage seems to have passed, and Bono is sleepy.  
       A certain song is playing on the radio.  
       _Well it’s too late tonight_  
 _To drag the past out into the light_  
       _We’re one, but we’re not the same_  
       _We get to carry each other, carry each other_  
       _One_  
       My hands reach out- there’s no harm in touching Bono, really now, is there? His eyelids flutter, his mouth falling open. I stroke his hair, twisting little curls of it around my fingers.  
       _One love_  
       _One blood_  
       _One life, you got to do what you should_  
       _One life with each other_  
       _Sisters, brothers_  
       I keep myself as silent as possible, and rub Bono’s shoulders. He’s crashed by now, and I lean in and press my lips to his forehead, his temples, all over his face but never on his lips. One continues to play on the radio, and I whisper to Bono in Dutch, a sappy love sentiment of “You are what my heart looks like.”   
       The guitar in One rings its notes, and Bono’s recorded voice sings in falsetto. I stroke Bono’s neck with my fingers and wait for the song to be over. The announcer on the radio speaks in Italian- “Quello era degli U2 One…” and I ask the driver if he can please turn the radio off. Nothing should be allowed to come on after U2 music.   
     We keep silent, awash in city lights, until the driver stops at the hotel. I thank him with all the heartfelt expression I can give, and unbuckle and awaken Bono. We leave the taxi, which speeds away into the night.  
       Bono’s all blurred by the rude awakening, and says nothing until I lead him inside. At that moment his eyes focus on me, and he says, “Where are we, Angel?” A terror comes over me- he recognizes me! He must not be completely lost, but… does he remember what happened in the phone booth?  
Without asking him, I lead Bono over to the lobby desk. There’s something I want before we go upstairs. “Sir? Can I have a glass of water?” I ask the receptionist in Italian.  
       He responds with a yes, confused as to why I would need it but willing to give it up to me, and goes to find one. Bono sways on his feet, and I wrap my arm around his waist and murmur “Calm, calm,” in Dutch.  
       The receptionist returns and hands over the glass- not filled with water, I see, but that’s fine- and I thank him and tow Bono over to the elevator. He watches us cautiously, probably mistaking me for some girl Bono’s picked up in the club and wondering what sort of sex toy a glass of water is. Unbeknownst to him, U2 are not like those hardcore rockers.   
       As we ride in the elevator, I ask Bono, “Can I have your room keys?”  
       “What d’you want them for?” he asks.  
       “You’re going to bed and I have to take you there. Can I have your keys, please?”  
       He surrenders them to me, but not without loudly complaining, “I feel like shit,” and leaning against my shoulder. I massage his neck and back and let him drape himself over me.  
       Outside the elevator on Bono’s floor, I push the key into the lock on his room and lead him inside. The lights are off, and I’m not prepared to turn them on. We feel our way through blackness and Bono falls down onto his bed. I wonder if I should undress him for sleeping, and decide against it. There’s too many ways I could get distracted…  
       Bono’s breathing slows down in bed, and I pull the blanket over him. “Sleep, sleep tonight,” I murmur, my voice scratching on the higher notes of the song but at least muted. “And may your dreams… be realized…” I place the keys on his nightstand and go into the bathroom, filling up the water glass. He’s not going to feel very good tomorrow, and might as well have something non-alcoholic to drink in the morning.  
       Back in the main room, I can’t resist giving one last kiss, this time on Bono’s nose. With hope he’ll never remember what I did tonight. Bono is already dead to the world. My body feels like a lit candle, and I back away slowly from the bed. No, there’s no way I can do _that_ with him tonight. There’s nothing I’d like more than to be in Bono’s bed, but I can’t take advantage of him in this state. Besides, it hurts me to admit it but I would never dare steal Bono away from Ali unless they were divorced. His body is hers alone, and as much as I loathe that fact I do not want the ownership to change hands. It would just feel wrong, sickening, to take over another woman’s property.  
       I slip out the door, tired, ready for some downtime. I can’t wait to go to sleep. The blinking red light of the answering machine greets me when I unlatch the door to my hotel room. Huh, that’s strange. Who would be calling me?  
       I play the message while dressing for bed. _Marieke, this is Herman._ My body stiffens. _If you can please call me right after you receive this message it would be much appreciated. Thank you._  
         What does Herman want? I don’t believe I’ve ever rung him in my life, though I do know his number. Is this something about Lina? My heart begins to race.  
       “Hello?” My voice, in its native Dutch language, sounds too loud and too nervous. I clutch the phone tightly. “Herman? This is Marieke, please pick-“  
       “Marieke?”  
       “Up,” I finish, sighing. “Herman, what did you call me for?”  
       “Er… do you have any idea what time it is?” he demands.  
       “Yes, I do, by the way.” Holland and Italy are not separated in time zones, so it is still one o’ clock in the morning over there. “Look Herman, you told me to call you. How did you get my hotel number?”  
       “Lina had it. That’s not important.” He sighs back at me. “Marieke, how long does your job on Zoo TV last?”  
       I think. “Until the end of the tour.”  
       “No,” Herman says. “When do your holiday hours expire?”  
       My voice shakes. “You don’t need to know that.”  
       “Marieke.” His voice is firm. “Marieke, you need to come home soon.”  
       “Why? Is it about Lina?” I don’t need to be meddling any of his business if it’s not.  
       “Yes, it’s about Lina. Who else? Please, Marieke, listen to what I have to say.”  
       That’s what I’m trying to do, you idiot. “Is there something wrong with her?”  
       “Well…” He swallows. “There may or may not be. Ever since you left to join the tour she’s grown more and more irritable every day. Her progress at work has gone far down too. I’m afraid I may have to fire her.”  
       “Why?” I ask. “Do you know why?”  
       “No, I have no idea. She’s also wanted me over less and less. Tonight she told me outright that she didn’t want me to come over anymore. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. I’ve never seen Lina depressed like this.”  
       Herman speaks with the concern of a longtime boyfriend. I, however, pipe up with the anxiety of a best friend in my voice. “Depressed like _what?_ Answer me, Herman!”  
       He shies away from my shouting. “I don’t know, all right? I don’t know. The way she’s been acting lately, it seems as if she _may_ be depressed. I figured it was because you’re not with her.”  
       “Why would she be depressed about that?” She’s lived an entire few years without me when I moved into my sister’s house. Lina should know how to cope. And yet… I have been away on tour for a much longer time than I’ve realized.  
       Herman answers me. “I don’t know why. I’m just very scared for her. Marieke, if you can, please call her.”   
       “I’ll do it now,” I tell him, my hand already hovering over the numbers of our flat.  
       “Please, Marieke,” he says, and hangs up.  
       I dial our flat number and wait for someone to pick up. No one does. After the fifth ring an answering machine comes on, and it’s not our usual recorded message. “Marieke, if that’s you I give a damn about your life on tour! Just leave me be.” The beep startles me so that I drop the phone. I hastily hang up and lie down in bed, but I’m far too broken to sleep.  
                                             ***  
         During the night, Bono only wakes up once due to a painful flipping in his stomach. He rushes into the bathroom. After expelling the alcohol from his system, he runs water over his face from the sink, drinking some of it. The lights are off, and his fingers come into contact with a smooth glass. He folds his hand over it and raises the glass to his lips, drinking half and gargling the rest to wash his mouth out. The glass slips from his hand and its impact with the bathroom floor sounds like a pistol shot to Bono’s ears. He groans and drags himself out of the bathroom, falling asleep on the floor right outside the bathroom door in case he feels sick again.  
                                             ***  
       When morning comes I’ve only slept for about three hours. I went to bed at 1:06, but I only fell asleep roughly around 3:30. My eyes protest to being cracked open, and I console myself with the thought that as soon as I eat breakfast I can go back up here and catch up on sleep. U2 is performing in Bologna tonight as well.  
         And now I remember. U2… Bono! Oh no… Does he remember anything from what happened last night? Or is he still asleep? I know that this will NOT do. Bono can’t find out that he kissed me… and he can’t know that I was the one who took him home. I had my hands all over him during that taxi ride. He shouldn’t be allowed to know that. In a panic I jump out of bed and dress, ready to find Eric. There’s a task he’d better do for me.  
       I knock on Eric’s door, and he answers it in a few seconds. “Marieke! Hi, what do you want?”  
       I ignore my mind’s reaction of singing Zooropa and say, “I need to talk to you.”  
       “Okay…” He gestures to the inside of his room.  
       I walk in and sit down on his bed. “Eric, can you lie about something for me?”  
       “Lie?” His green eyes flash. “What are you talking about?”  
       “I mean, I took Bono back to the hotel last night. He was very drunk and I don’t want him to remember that I took him here. Please lie and say that you did it.”  
       “Why, Marieke?” Eric’s eyes have hardened. “What happened between you that you don’t want him to remember?”  
       He looks so innocent, and I badly want to spill my story to him. The problem is, I’m not sure if he can be trusted with the whole truth. “Nothing happened. We didn’t sleep with each other or anything.” Eric blushes. “Just lie about it, please. I can’t explain why, but just do it.”  
       “But… I wasn’t even at your club,” Eric protests.  
       “Do you think he’ll remember? He was drunk. Eric…”  
       “If you shove me into that position Bono’s bound to realize there was more going on than you’re telling him. Me taking him home is believable, but not when I wasn’t with him in the first place. He’s going to realize the details in the fabric.”  
       “Oh, Eric…” My voice fails me for a few moments. “You know, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll ask Jack if he can cover for me.”  
       “Okay.” I step off the bed. As I walk to the door, Eric calls me back. “You love him, don’t you? You really love him.”  
       I stay frozen, standing on the floor. My face burns crimson and I can’t look at Eric. Finally my words come out in the form of a squeak- “Jack or Bono?”  
       I can feel Eric’s nod. “So you love one of them. Who is it?”  
       My mouth dries up. The words are unheard over the roaring of blood in my ears. “Bono.”  
       Then I rush back to Eric and cling to him. “Oh God, I’m so sorry, Eric. Please forget I said that. I’m begging you to keep this secret.”  
       Eric’s eyes are slitted, but he finally gives confirmation. “I will. I’m sorry for you, Marieke.”  
       I shakily remove myself from Eric’s arms, worried that he might jump to conclusions about why I didn’t want Bono to know I took him home. But I told Eric we didn’t sleep together…  
       And Eric was so unemotional this morning. I hope I haven’t ruined his heart by confessing who I’m in love with.  
       I ride the elevator down to Jack’s room. To my luck he is just leaving. I wave him over, and he comes, wincing with every step. I raise an eyebrow. “Hangover?”  
       “Yes,” he admits, rubbing his temples. “What can I do for you?”  
       My words come out much more easily now. “If Bono asks who took him back here last night, from the club, can you please lie for me? I don’t want him to know I did it.”  
       “Of course, Marieke,” Jack agrees. “I’ll spread the word around to the people who know the truth. Nice seeing you this morning.” He departs, and my heart swells with happiness for having a friend like Jack.  
       Now my mind is free to concentrate on the second most important problem- Herman’s call to me last night. It’s so hard trying to remember, but seeing as it is what kept me awake all night, it deserves as much attention as I can give it.  
       Lina is depressed or something, and I need to go back to Rotterdam before anything comes of that depression. If she misses me so much, I don’t know why she told me to leave in her answering machine message. Oh dear. This is going to be one of those emotional episodes that I can’t figure out how to solve.  
       A trip back to Rotterdam sounds appetizing. I haven’t missed my home all that much recently, but thinking on Lina makes my heart pound with anxiety. Dear God, I hope she’s okay. I go to breakfast seeing no sign of Bono, and that’s all fine and dandy with me. I’m too busy planning a trip home.  
                                                 ***  
       Bono awakens on the floor of his suite outside the bathroom, staring at shards of broken glass on the floor of the bathroom. He has a massive hangover, but nothing that a massive breakfast can’t cure. The real problem is his emotion.  
 _I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry…_ He lies on his back and apologizes over and over to a nameless figure, feeling ridden with guilt for an inexplicable reason. Bono must call home- there’s no way to put it off any longer. He misses his family altogether too much, and after trying to drink away the problem last night he realizes he can’t hide it.  
         Bono heaves himself onto the bed and grabs the telephone. He dials from memory, crossing his fingers for luck and closing his eyes to lessen the effects of the morning after. A woman’s voice answers on the third ring.  
     “Ali?” She sounds surprised and questions Bono- why has he called her this early in the morning? Her familiar voice loosens the tension in Bono’s muscles. He hasn’t realized how deeply he misses her until she’s actually speaking with him.  
       “I’m sorry,” Bono tells her, the apology finally coming out from the throes of his mind and staying where he’s put it- in Ali’s ears. “I miss you, love,” he continues, his voice breaking slightly. She puts him to rights instantly, but he can feel the overwrought beneath her skin. They hold each other with words, both missing the other but unable to do anything about it.  
 _In a little while, surely you’ll be mine_  
 _In a little while I’ll be there_  
 _In a little while this hurt will hurt no more_  
 _I’ll be home, love_


	28. A Fine Romance

       After a day of planning and fretting over Lina, I make the mistake of bumping into Bono, who clutches my wrists. “Angel, why so serious?” he asks me, with plenty of seriousness in his own voice, and I shake myself and tell him that I have to go back to Rotterdam today. His blue eyes narrow- “We’re scheduled to play in Holland on the third of August. Can you wait until then?” I don’t tell him about Lina, instead asking where the tour is going to in Holland. The response is Nijmegen, which is where my parents live. A few doubts still cloud my mind, but one glance into Bono’s eyes seals the deal, and my plans are once again thwarted. I’ll get to see my parents in the very least- never mind that the day Bono tells me this is July 18th, a long way from August.

       But I’ve put that behind me now. The best part about that day in Bologna was that Bono swallowed Jack’s lie about who had the honors of taking him to the hotel. He appears to have forgotten I was ever with him that night. That suits me just fine. I’m still a bit worried about Lina, but the fact that Herman hasn’t called me since that one night calms me down. However, she still doesn’t pick up the phone when I call, which keeps a flutter of fright in the back of my mind. I convince myself to forget her- Herman will bring me more news if there is any.

     The date is July 28th, and I’ve just stepped off a plane to find myself in Oslo, Norway after leaving Denmark just a few minutes earlier- or so it seems. Neither Eric nor I are ready to get any work done as we enter the hotel. Tomorrow U2 will be performing at the Valle Hovin Stadion, and we have to prepare for the show today. U2 is already at the stadium, doing soundchecks.

       Eric and Jack both leave me behind to write a MacPhisto speech, wishing me luck. I have no idea what I’m going to write it on. Usually Bono tells me what sort of issue he has on the mind for each country, and I improvise from there. But today I want to be prepared. My Norwegian isn’t very polished- I can only say Hello- so I have no idea how I’m going to get the information for a speech.

     I take a walk to help collect my thoughts. Passing by a newsstand, I stop to read what’s going on in Norway. It’s impossible to read the headlines, but I buy a newspaper anyway and go back to the hotel with a translation book.

       After a while I have puzzled out one article. The story seems to be about whale hunting- about how the Norwegians have overturned a ban on hunting whales commercially. This decision seems to have made other countries very angry, and no wonder. Why would anyone kill an animal that’s not in popular demand? I can’t imagine why anyone would do this for a living.

       I begin to wonder what side MacPhisto would take on this debate. Would he care about the whales? No way in hell. He wouldn’t give one whit about them. The Devil must always choose the unpopular side, preferring evil and mischief to the good of others. With that in mind I set about to writing the speech.

     At the end of the day Bono meets with me, exhausted from soundchecking songs since he arrived in Norway. I give him the speech and he frowns. “What’s the problem?” I ask him.

       “How did you write this without my help?” he asks back. I show him the newspaper article. His frown grows deeper. “I wanted to address this issue, but to tell the truth it’s a tough subject to approach. Not everyone disagrees with the ban.”

       “I do,” I say. “MacPhisto doesn’t. This is all that matters. Just try to read it aloud..”

       “All right…,” he says, and does my bidding. I’m so pleased that I hug him. Bono embraces me back and says, “MacPhisto will do well with this.” Neither of us know what we are getting into.

       “Here’s your payment! And use it wisely, that is hard-earned cash right there!”

       As we eat dinner that night, Eric grins at me from across the restaurant table. “Marieke, I’ve gotten something for you.” He flips out two tickets- tickets to the U2 show?! I thought it was sold out!

       “What are those?” Jack asks disdainfully.

       “They’re tickets, Marieke,” Eric says, forgetting the fact that I don’t have a low male voice and an Irish accent. “You know how Bono said he wouldn’t dance with you again? Well, I have tickets for the front row, right at the B stage. He’s bound to choose you again if you’re sitting there.”

       My head feels funny. “Eric, I can’t,” I say. “Bono didn’t want to dance with me. He’ll choose another girl if he sees me in the audience.”

       “But still, it’s worth trying,” Eric says. “I know you love him. I know you’d love this…”

       I frantically try to shush Eric, but it’s too late. Jack has heard. “You love Bono?” he asks.

       My face grows warm. “Look what you’ve done now!” I hiss to Eric.

       Jack holds up his hands. “I’m not judging you. I’m glad you love someone. Just… he’s not exactly the best choice for you.”

       Mortified, I stare at my plate.

       “You can get tickets too,” Eric suggests to Jack. I know as well as he does that the only tickets left would be awful seats incredibly far from the stage.

       Jack brushes out his longish brown hair with his fingers. “Oh no, you two go ahead. I don’t want to join you.”

       Eric shrugs. “Okay then. Marieke, you still don’t want this ticket?”

       “I’ll come,” I sigh, surrendering. At least I get to be a fan for a while longer.

                                         ***

       “Try a taste of Martini, the most beautiful drink in the world! It’s the right one, it’s the bright one, that’s Martini!”

       Ah, my favorite snippet. I smile at the crowd response. Eric clutches his arm tighter around me. We’ve been sitting here in the audience for the whole show, and never once has Bono glanced my way. I’m beginning to think there’s hope for me to be pulled up again.

       “I thought I’d sing this one for our neighbors, they’ve been so good,” MacPhisto explains to the audience. They cheer again. “What a wonderful show, what a wonderful night, what a wonderful country you have here. Oslo!” he breathes, and the crowd breathes out their own praise in the form of more cheers. I do too.

       “Ahhh, the fjords! The wildlife is so wonderful here!” MacPhisto exclaims, grinning broadly. He PAUSEs for a moment. “And what’s all the fuss about the whales?” he asks the crowd. We boo at his bringing it up.

       “I mean, I don’t understand it- what have the whales ever done for us, eh?” MacPhisto asks rhetorically. He isn’t expecting the cheer from the audience. What? But they’re not supposed to take MacPhisto’s side. He’s not on the _right_ side…

       Ignoring this, MacPhisto continues with my words. “They’re unemployed-“ “YEAH!” yells the crowd. “They don’t pay taxes-“

       “NO!”

       “And they take up a lot of room, don’t you think?”

       “YEAH!” This time the yeah’s go on for so long that MacPhisto himself appears a bit worried. The expression lasts only a second, but it scares me. He’s not supposed to show anything. Then again, the audience isn’t supposed to side with the enemy.

       “I have a friend here…” MacPhisto says. “And he taught me all about the whales. His name is Mr. Olsen. I believe he is your Minister of the Fisheries, shall I give him a telephone call?” At least with those magic words the audience cheers properly, making it easier for me to breathe.

       MacPhisto heads to the phone and dials. “When you’re famous everyone gives you their telephone number,” he says. “Jan Henry Olsen, let me see… 083-48332,” he says as he punches the numbers in. We cheer and giggle as MacPhisto notes, “You can call him tomorrow if you’d like.”

       The phone only rings for a while before a man picks up. “Hello?”

       “Hello, I’d like to speak to Mr. Olsen, please,” MacPhisto says.

       “Yes?”

       “Is this Mr. Olsen?” MacPhisto asks.

     “Yes.”

       I’m shocked. This is the first time we’ve ever gotten through to an actual politician. Clearly MacPhisto doesn’t know what to say. “Oh, I-“ he starts, but the crowd drowns him out big time.

       “I’m jolly pleased to get through to you, my name is Mr. MacPhisto!” he exclaims gleefully.

       “How are you?” Mr. Olsen asks.

       “I’m very well, thank you. I’m here with a few friends,” he says, and the “few friends” laugh at this statement.

       “I can hear them in the background!” Mr. Olsen says, amused.

       MacPhisto says, “Well, I must say, we all here agree that the whales, all the fuss about the whales is just complete madness and we’d just like to say to you that we think that, um, whales have done nothing for us and we should put a tax on them at least!”

       Even though I’ve written those words, the humor gets me. I chuckle at the thought of taxing whales. Still, it disturbs me a bit of how supportive the audience is of MacPhisto’s goals. They aren’t supposed to be taking his side in the first place.

       Mr. Olsen laughs at the notion, just like me. MacPhisto asks, “What do you think, Mr. Olsen?”

       “My opinion,” says Mr. Olsen, “is that, er, if they were threatened we shouldn’t catch them, but as long as there are- they are safe stocks, we shall do that because of the food.”

       “Ahhh…” says MacPhisto, pleased with the response. I am not, however- why do Norwegians have to eat whale anyway? Even in that Ahhh I detected a hint of Bono’s unhappiness showing through, and I wonder if he’ll be able to hold it down to finish the script.

       The crowd is cheering and chanting, showing their support for Mr. Olsen. I’m crestfallen, and sling my arm around Eric. Mr. Olsen apparently has asked a question, because MacPhisto speaks next with an answer.

       “Well, I haven’t, actually, and I, I must say this to you, that, um, I’m- you know, I have _absolutely_ no time for people who _like_ whales or dolphins myself… and I’m sure that if you catch them, you’ll eat them all yourself, won’t you, Mr. Olsen?!”

       Wow… I sit up straighter, reveling in the crowd’s laughter. How’s that for taking a bite out of the man, MacPhisto?

       And he seems to have flustered him. “No, I won’t, because I can’t manage that, but, er... I’m very glad that very many Norwegians want that, but, er-“

       “D’you like to munch on a whale steak yourself, do you?” MacPhisto asks. I laugh again. Where’s he going with this?

       “I take a bit, yes,” says Mr. Olsen. I have to wonder how that tastes.

       MacPhisto giggles. “Aha, you like the odd whale steak!” But even I can see that Bono is very nervous- which frightens me to the bone. He obviously feels as if he’s going out on a limb.

       And then Mr. Olsen shocks us all. “I’m going to have a whale steak tomorrow. D’you want to come and have dinner with me?”

       All the fans around me laugh like crazy. Eric and I stare at each other. The fans are definitely on Mr. Olsen’s side- they _want_ to continue whaling. I’ve gotten the entire speech wrong!

       MacPhisto has to shout to be heard. “You’re so very kind. Mr. Olsen…”

       “Yes?”

       “I think you and I are going to get on just fine!” His shoulders shake as he says this, presumably from laughter, but I recognize it as the man inside trying to fight off a character. Bono feels ruined.

       Amidst the noise of the Norwegians, Ultraviolet rings through. MacPhisto clutches the telephone and stares out at us. Mr. Olsen speaks his last words- “I hope so, because I like you very much too!”

       MacPhisto only sings in response- “Sometimes I feel like I don’t know…”

       The performance is breathtaking. I’ve nearly forgotten how good it is to take a seat in the audience. I realize now that nothing- _nothing-_ is better than watching a U2 show from the place a fan rightfully belongs. God, I love this.

       However, something in this performance is a bit off. MacPhisto doesn’t look like he’s enjoying the song as much as I am. Suddenly, as the second verse begins, he explodes into a new set of lyrics-

       “Will you bury our treasure where it can’t be found? Deep under the ocean, makes a wonderful sound!” His voice is strong, at a howling pitch. “There is a silence that comes to a house when no one can sleep… We won’t ask you to make promises we know you won’t keep.” Pure anger radiates from those words, blowing me away. It’s almost as if Bono’s directing his fury at the whaling industry, telling them to stop. He must be channeling his frustration from the failed speech into song.

       “Ultraviolet light…” Edge sings near the climax. “Ultraviolet light…” I wave my hands in the air, determined to enjoy this performance and make the best of it. MacPhisto is throwing himself around on his feet, singing “Oooh…

     “Time’s giving out… I’ll soon be outta here…” he sings. These are not the proper words either. “I won’t be back for many years…” The change frightens me half to death. It’s not Bono singing anymore- the lines between he and MacPhisto are becoming blurred. Another entity has taken hold of one of their bodies- it’s just hard to say which one.

       “Baby, baby, baby… LIIIIIIIIIIIGHTTTTTTT _myyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy WAAYYYYYYYYYYYY!”_ The operatic note reaches high and is cut off when MacPhisto falls suddenly, slumping over and panting. He’s put all his energy into that one song. I’m afraid he has no strength for the next one.

       Adam’s bass come throbbing in. I decide to myself that I must learn how to play like him. It’s too amazing, really, the way his basslines collide and dig out the stuff in me that I thought was hidden too far down.

       “See the stone set in your eyes… see the thorn twist in your side,” MacPhisto half whispers into the mic. “I wait for you…” His voice trembles, and I see his knuckles clench down on the microphone as if digging into flesh.

       “With or without you… with or without you…”

       These performances can go two ways for me- either I keep half of my mind on it while trying not to cry, or I just watch MacPhisto and get caught up in the emotion. But this performance is something else. It’s as if I _am_ MacPhisto, as if we’ve turned into a dual personality, his pain becoming mine and us becoming one. I am the one who can’t live with or without him, and he can’t live with or without me.

       “And you give yourself away… and you give yourself away… and you give… and you give… and you give your soul away…” Tears collect in the corners of my eyes. I feel handcuffed, tied down, gagged- just bound by some predicament I can do nothing about.

       MacPhisto’s breathing is coming faster and faster as he tries to gather strength to keep singing. At the climax of the song he leans into the microphone and just screams, a sound which quickly turns into the “OOOOOH oh oh OOOOOH” that I’m familiar with. Tears pour down my face and soak quickly into my skin. MacPhisto is visibly shaking, his body rocking as he tries to keep what control he has. “With or without you,” he whimpers. “With or without you, my love… I can’t live with or without you. With or without you.”

       The bassline picks up and MacPhisto turns away from us, hiding his heart- I guess it’s all he can do. In a voice barely more than a whisper, he sings, “And you give… and you give… and you give… and you give… and you give… and you give… and you give… and you give…”

       I half expect him to go into the “shine like stars” verse that he sang at the Rome show. But I should know better than that, seeing the way With or Without you has been performed these past days. MacPhisto turns to the crowd- not towards my face, however- and gasps it out- “With or without you… with or without you… I can’t live with or without you! With or without… you…”

       The touch of Eric’s hand on mine surprises me out of despair. He gazes into my eyes, whispering fervently, “Are you all right?”

       I shake my head no as Love Is Blindness starts.

     So it has come to this. MacPhisto is being torn apart inside, probably even worse than he usually is during the encores. Fortunately he keeps his face away from my side of the stage and sings slowly, “Love is blindness, I don’t wanna see. Won’t you wrap the night around me? Take my heart… it’s blindness.”

       His voice is soft, to make up for the throat-scalding bellows of the last two songs, but it is smothered with unbridled anger. My fear reappears, rising higher in my throat- what is MacPhisto angry for? He sounds menacing now, more dog than man.

       “In a parked car, in a crowded street… you see your love made complete. The thread is ripping, the knot is slipping… love is blindness.”

       And then suddenly his voice just collapses in on itself and he loses whatever composure he’s gained. “Love is clockworks and cold steel… fingers too numb to feel. Squeeze the handle…” He mechanically hoists his hand into the air and aims it into the audience, squeezing the trigger on the next line. “Blow out the candle… love is blindness.” The way MacPhisto half chokes on that word causes me to place my hand over my heart. Please, let this song continue.

       MacPhisto opens his mouth yet again, and I steel myself for the delivery- but the words are not the same. Confused, I look up, blinking moisture from my eyes. The words aren’t even U2’s own.

       “There must be someway… out of here… said the joker, to the thief. There’s too much… confusion here… I can’t get no relief.”

       What the heck? This is All Along The Watchtower- and yet it sounds just like Love Is Blindness! The lyrics are inserted perfectly to the tune. Somehow that makes the song even more potent, especially with both the anger of the previous verses and the gut-wrenching sadness of the present, all jam-packed into these inadequate Bob Dylan lines. And all that can run through my head at this exact second is _What’s MacPhisto doing covering such a mediocre song?_

MacPhisto whirls back to the B stage, back to us. I catch a glimpse of his face, and instantly wish I hadn’t. The corners of his mouth are twitching downward and his eyes are dazed with pain. He falters over to us and sings more words from All Along The Watchtower. “Businessmen they… drink my wine… plowmen they… dig my Earth. None of them know… more than I… what any of this is worth…” His voice is an indescribable mixture of raw, open-wound pain and heart-stopping fury. As Edge strikes into the bleeding solo, MacPhisto wildly reaches down and grabs my wrist. I have little warning before I am back on the Zoo TV stage, dancing with the Devil for a third time in my life.

       MacPhisto’s finger’s hold me tightly, as if he can’t live without my touch. I am the only person in the stadium close enough to notice the tear that slips down his cheek from bright, murderous eyes. This time there are no words for me to say. He presses his face into my hair and inhales, and I imagine he’s taking in my scent. The thought makes my head spin. I have just enough time to part the black hair at the nape of his neck before Edge finishes his solo.

       We are standing together on the B stage, wrapped tight in each other’s arms. MacPhisto ends the song in a voice quieter than the smallest whisper, but amplified by the microphone. My hairs stand on end in reaction to the sound.

       “Love is blindness, I don’t wanna see. Won’t you wrap the night around me? Take my heart…”

       He’s rocking me back and forth in his arms, and suddenly throws the arm holding the mic over my shoulder. He clutches it in both hands and rests hid head on my other shoulder, murmuring the last word very quietly.

       “Blindness.”

       The crowd goes insane.

       MacPhisto untangles himself all too quickly, one finger trailing my spine, and squeezes my hand before letting me return to my seat. I stand there, utterly shocked, until Eric grabs my hand, pulling me back down. How much more intimate can you get?

       Then, as MacPhisto starts Can’t Help Falling In Love, a sigh escapes. There is a large part of me that is unsatisfied with the simple act of a dance.

     One small tear trembles on my eyelash. It rolls down my cheek as MacPhisto hits his falsetto notes, voice racked with emotion but beautiful still. After that everything seems to move in slow motion, and I am oblivious to the roar of the Norwegian crowd as band exits the stage and, eventually, the Zoo TV screens go out.

       Then I am running through the audience to reach the stage, yelling out Bono’s name.

       Backstage, Edge tells me as he fans himself that Bono- or MacPhisto- has not been seen since he left the stage. “It’s okay, Marieke. The show just ended a few minutes ago. Give us some time,” he says, obviously meaning _Give him some time._ I stand outside the dressing room door, impatient but too nervous to knock.

       Finally impatience trumps all, and I rap sharply on the door. The man inside opens it with no hesitation. I barrel in, skidding to a stop in front of Bono. He hasn’t removed any of the MacPhisto costume yet.

       “Bono? Would you like help with that?”

       He shakes his head and sits, saying nothing. I hover at his left shoulder as he scrubs his face with his palms, removing the face makeup in a haphazard manner. The lipstick, I imagine, could be kissed away onto me. I wouldn’t protest, I honestly wouldn’t…

       As Bono removes his red shirt, I find it hard for a conversation topic. But I manage to find one to get my mind away from his body…

       “You danced with me tonight.”

       He stops moving. “I did.” Instantly I wish I hadn’t spoken. Bono’s voice is rough, in a way I’m unaccustomed to. I haven’t heard a voice so messed up, and I suspect it’s from his open-throated cries onstage.

       “Marieke? Don’t do that again.”

     I nod. I don’t tell him that it was Eric who put the idea into my head. I’ll take whatever punishment he wants to give me.

       “Was the speech-“

       “The speech was fine.” His voice is firm. I don’t think he really means that it’s fine. “Are you sure? I’m so sorry for writing it. I wasn’t aware that the Norwegians would take Olsen’s side.”

       Bono still hasn’t moved to put on a new shirt. He says, “Honestly, Marieke, it was _fine.”_ I shake my head as a silent protest, and he purses his lips without voicing an argument. The strength seems to drain from his shoulders, and he slumps over and pushes his face into his hands. His bare back is so close to me.

       “Emotional show?”

     He breathes. “A little, yeh.”

       I remember the tear I saw on his face onstage. Was that a crack in Bono’s façade or has MacPhisto been taken to a new level? It doesn’t matter because I’ll never know.

       Just as I’m backing away, Bono says, “Don’t go yet,” and, standing, hugs me in a lung-crushing way. It’s just like his embrace onstage- I’m pressed against his sweaty chest, this time with no fabric separating us, my hands at his back and his face in my hair. I squeeze him hard, feeling my fingers roll right off his skin, and his breathing grows uneven before he pulls it back together and steps away from me. We stare into each other’s faces. My mouth is agape and my cheeks are warm. He’s peering straight into my soul with deadly eyes before his mouth finally lifts into a startling smile.

       “What is it, love?”

       I shake my head and stare at his shoes, murmuring “I love you” in Dutch. He won’t know what that means.

       Bono’s hands move, and I think he’s going to touch me. But instead he smoothes his own hair back.

       “All right, let’s go check on the band, eh, Angel of Holland?”

       I follow with a sadness he won’t be able to see.

       Later- much, much later into the night, Bono is able to carefully examine a thought that’s been naggling at him since Marieke came to his dressing room after the show. Her words- what were those words? They were in Dutch, definitely, and sounded remarkably familiar. Has he heard her speaking them before?

Digging into his memory, Bono recollects nothing relevant- something about a phone booth, a very good feeling, and a hotel with bright lights… He can’t remember past there, and it hurts his brain even trying. Whatever those words mean, it’s nothing he should be concerned about. He’ll leave that up to Marieke.

       And so the U2 touring machine moves on to Sweden, and everything about Oslo is forgotten. Except Marieke remembers the way her soul had tingled onstage with MacPhisto, and Bono remembers extreme pain throughout his body. He never wants to feel like that again.


	29. Where Did It All Go Wrong?

     It occurs a few days after the Oslo show, when Adam mounts the stage of theSwedish stadium to soundcheck his bass. I’m here as well, having virtually nothing else to do, and ask when Adam’s done if I can take bass lessons from him.  
       Adam scratches his head. “I’d be happy to do that favor, Marieke, but I don’t really know how to play myself.” Laughing, he explains that he is a self-taught musician, and wouldn’t know the first things about teaching someone else.  
       I shrug my shoulders. “Where’s your bass technician?”  
       Adam’s eyes light up. “Brilliant, Marieke. I’ll go find him.” He returns hauling another man by the elbow. “Marieke, this is Stuart. Stuart, meet Marieke.”  
       Thetwo of us eye each other, shake hands, and exchange pleasantries. Stuart says, “So you want to play the bass guitar? We’ll see how this works out. Come on up here with me.” We go backstage with one final warning tossed to Adam- “Get back to work!”  
       Stuart helps me select one guitar to my liking. I hoist the strap over my head and gently touch the strings, feeling scared for a second. What if I break it by accident?  
       A pick is thrown at me, and Stuart says, “We’ll start you withbasic scales. Have you ever taken music lessons?”  
       I shake my head. “I’ve only listened to music. I’ve never made it.”  
       “I’ll show you how to do it, even if it kills you,” he says, chuckling, and we begin.  
       After about two hours of music theory, I can still only play a few scales. Stuart says I’m a fast learner, and I feel doubtful. He’s sure to have had better students than me!  
       “Why don’t you teach Adam this?” I ask, settling my pick on the side of the bass, where it promptly falls off. Stuart stoops to get it.  
       “Are you kidding? I would never…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, and hands thepick back to me. “Start over.” I haven’t misinterpreted that glint in his eye as his gaze roams over me. He’s a nice enough person, but when a man looks at me in that way my guard always comes up.  
       “I’d prefer to take a break,” I say, and stroll off withthe bass in my arms.  
       Throughout thefollowing day, when I’m not writing a phone call for MacPhisto, I am practicing bass guitar with Stuart or Adam. Sometimes other crewman watch my progression- Jack in particular, is intrigued. I know he likes seeing music being born. I try to play for him.  
       “Marieke,” he tells me in Dutch after a particularly grueling session, “you’re a true drama queen.” I only eyeball him. So what if I’d kept yelling expletives when I messed up? No one really cares, theway we talk around here.  
       Of course, Bono seem to think these lessons are very amusing. “What’re you trying to do, replace Adam as bass guitarist?” he asks me.  
       “No,” I reply scornfully. “It’s just something to do in spare time.”  
       His laugh rings through theroom. I roll my eyes and shove a piece of paper into his hand. “You. Get to reading this. Now.”  
       The Stockholm show is a fun one. Bono tells me that nothing can top their 1992 concert here, but in my eyes this one is pretty close. After Angel of Harlem, Bono holds the microphone stand and simply says, “This is a new song.” He’s holding his accustomed black guitar in his hands. A few cues are given, and the song starts with only two instruments- guitar and vocals.  
       “Green light, seven-eleven… you stop in for a pack of cigarettes… you don’t smoke, don’t even want to… hey now, check your change…”  
       Shock can’t register in my brain. I should have expected that U2 would begin playing more Zooropa songs than Numb live.   
       “Dressed up like a car crash… your wheels are turning, but you’re upside down. You say when he hits you, you don’t mind.” My heart is rent as Bono continues. “Because when he hurts you, you feel alive. Oh, now, is that what it is?”  
       He gives an obviously rehearsed cue and counts the rest of theband in. Larry and Adam join with pleasure, and Edge kicks into the repeating riff of Stay.  
       “Red light, gray in morning, you stumble out of a hole in the ground. A vampire or a victim, it depends on who’s around.” Bono leans back, immersed in the song. “You used to stay in to watch the adverts… you could lip sync to the talk shows.” His voice grows more passionate. “And if you look, you look through me. And if you talk, you talk at me… and when I touch you, you don’t feel a thing…”  
       Edge and Bono both sing on thechorus. “If I could stay, then the night would give you up! Stay, and the day would keep its trust! Stay, and the night would be enough!”  
Bono clutches the guitar with care. “Far away, so close… up withthe static and the radio waves… with satellite television, you can go anywhere.”  
       The people of Sweden get a pleasant surprise on the next line. “Miami, New Orleans… Stockholm-“ They roar. “To the rest of the world… And if you listen, I might call. And if you jump, you just might fall. And if you shout I’ll only hear you…” Ba-dum, dum.  
       “If I could stay, then the night would give you up! Stay, and the day would keep it trust! Stay, withthe spirits I found! Stay, withthe demons you drowned! Stay, and the night would be enough!”  
       I enjoy myself rocking back and forth as Bono pulls away and sings. “Oh-oh-oooh, oh, oh, ohhh… oh-oh-oooh, oh, oh, ohhh…” I can imagine his eyes closing, his skin sweating. Edge back him up on the final “OOOOh, oh, oh, ooooohhhh…”  
       Bono fingers the mic as if it’s an otherworldly object. He sings softly, “Three o’clock in the morning, it’s quiet and there’s no one around… just the bang and the clatter as an angel hits the ground.” The instruments become muted. “Just the bang and the clatter… as an angel, runs to ground.” Larry strikes a cymbal and the song is over. I cheer from backstage. What a great performance!  
       And it is days later, on the first of August, when we arrive in Nijmegen, Holland. I set foot on Dutch soil once again and have the time of my life with it.  
                                       ***  
 _Plunk. Plunka plunk. Plunka-plunka-plunk. Plunka-plunka-plunka-plunk._  
       I play a scale, moving my fingers up the strings of a bass guitar. The note names flash in my head with every string I touch. It vibrates across my body, and I dip the neck for a second to watch the sun glance off the knobs at the top.  
       When I’m done, Stuart applauds me. “We should teach you some nice riffs. Are there any songs you’d love to learn?”  
       “New Year’s Day?” I propose hesitantly.  
       Stuart nods. “Adam’s a very simple player. This should be easy.”  
       I work on it, guessing at the notes, and manage to pluck out the first bars, with a lot of restarting.  
       The plane moves under a cloud and the sunlight is gone. I fold my hands over the bass’s side. “Ow.”  
       “Let me see your fingers,” Stuart says. I extend my hand with a rueful expression. He sighs.  
       “You can’t play a bass with gloves, you know.”  
       “If it hurts why don’t you stop?” Eric asks from a few seats down.   
       “I’m not quitting,” I groan, taking up the instrument again.  
       “We’ve had to listen to that for this entire ride,” someone else speaks up. “You can practice later.”  
       “I don’t want to!” I insist, rolling my palm over the smooth wood.  
       Stuart glances backwards. “Maybe you should take a break.”  
       I hand the acoustic bass over to him and stare gloomily out the window. In a few moments we’ll be in Holland, in my birthplace. I’m allowed visit my parents when we arrive.  
       My thoughts float along withthe clouds outside the plane. We might be greeted by rain in Nijmegen. That’s okay, I guess. At least I’ll be home… or is it home for me? When I think of home, I picture my flat in Rotterdam.  
       My eyes open to the sound of, “Welcome to The Netherlands!” I blink, adjusting my vision. We’re in Holland? How did we get here so fast?  
       The crew is departing the plane, and I tip myself onto the ground, placing my hands on my hips. The day is overcast, but it’s beautiful. I’m home!  
       Someone bumps into me, and I turn to see Eric. “Hey,” we say simultaneously, and both start, mirroring each other. Noticing this, we both laugh, and break off to identically shout, “Jinx!”  
       Eric ruins immediately it by complaining, “Stop mimicking me!”  
       “I’m not trying,” I say.  
       Eric’s mouth opens, but slams shut when another crewman collects our attention. “Come over, you lovebirds! We have to unload our baggage.”  
       “We’re not really- Hey, wait up!” Eric calls, seeing as I’m already running away from him. I laugh at hearing his footsteps pounding on the ground after me, attempting a swift pursuit. However, his body is chunkier than mine, and I reach the plane easily before he does. I toss my hair in Eric’s direction, pretending to flirt with him. He mock-tackles me, arms out, but I spin away and, grabbing my bag, make for the bus.  
       My strides eventually catch me up with Jack, at whom I fire a very long string of Dutch. He doesn’t even blink. “I’ve no idea what you just said, woman.”  
       “Someone needs to study,” I laugh. “Where in Holland did you used to live?”  
       “Rotterdam,” he answers. “Your hometown?”  
       I shake my head. “No. I was born in Nijmegen.” We both board the bus.  
       As the view outside the window flashes by, it digs up old memories from my mind. Many of the places we pass are all too familiar. It’s a comfort to be here again after days without a true home. The bus stops at the hotel for the Zoo TV entourage, but I stay on the bus and wave goodbye to my friends. “I’ll see you tomorrow!” I call out thewindow as the bus speeds up and we head further downtown.  
       I ask the driver where his route ends, my own language tasting like honey on my lips. He tells me and I calculate the closest stop to my parent’s house. It’ll be a long walk, but I’m quite fit from all these early morning jogs.  
       At the stop I stumble onto the sidewalk, dragging my luggage behind me, and grin to the man behind the wheel as he takes off again. I turn to my right and take the familiar path that will bring me eventually to the front door of my old home.  
       The first thing I notice about thehouse is its color. They’ve painted it light green- was that my mother’s idea? As I draw closer I spy the immense garden of flowers and smile, remembering my mom complaining about her boredom. She’s obviously getting the hang of retirement if this garden is any evidence to her caretaking skills.  
       And here she is, kneeling in thedirt, her gloved hands carefully fondling a green-leafed plant. My mother appears blissfully relaxed. I carry myself closer and clear my throat at thewalkway to the door. “Ahem…”  
       Mom looks up. She blinks. “Marieke?!”  
       “Hey Mom,” I say, my voice awkward. It’s been a while since I’ve spoken Dutch to anyone but Jack, and even he doesn’t know every word. “I’m home.”  
       She stays where she is as I drop down to hug her.  
       “Marieke! Are you home for good now?”  
       “No,” I say. “The tour stopped in Nijmegen, and I figured…”  
       For the first time, Mom notices my suitcase. “Are you staying over tonight?”  
       “Yeah. Where’s Dad?” She can’t get inside without his help.  
       “On the porch…” Mom cups her hands to her lips and shrieks his name. After a few moments Dad appears, breaking into a wide grin when he sees me.  
       “Marieke, my God… what are you doing here?”  
       I repeat what I’ve just told my mother and he accepts it, the smile still stretched across his cheeks.  
       “Well. Let’s get you two into the house!” I pick up my bag and watch as Dad lifts Mom off the ground. He groans. “Must we always do this?”  
       “It’s not practical to have a garden when you can’t walk,” I tell my mom. She rolls her eyes. “Do you think this was my choice? No. If they hadn’t gotten rid of me I wouldn’t need entertainment…”  
       I sigh- same old Mom- and follow my parents into the house.  
                                         ***  
      After hours of discussing my life on tour and three cups of tea, my parents finally fill me in on their life. It sounds so boringly simple compared to what I’ve been up to. They’ve been expecting a visit from my sister, which hasn’t arrived yet- and, secretly, relieves me greatly. I’m not sure if I’d be able to stand the whole family back together again.  
       Mom drains her last cup. “Lina called us once, too.” Her voice is reproachful. She’s never taken a caring to Lina, that girl I met in a record shop.  
       My heart pounds. “She _did?”_ I ask, trying not to squeak.  
       “Yes, she did.” Mom tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and settles the cup firmly on the coffee table nearby.  
“Why did she call you? Is she okay?”  
       “I don’t know,” Mom answers. “You know her better than me. She just asked if we were doing all right and if we’ve had any news from you.”  
       “Oh.” I try to comprehend that. Lina, calling my family before she calls me? But I’ve been giving her my phone numbers, haven’t I? Maybe I’ve forgotten a few recently, but it doesn’t mean I’ve disappeared.  
       “Have you kept in touch with her?” Dad asks, his voice ringing my ears.  
       “I’m not sure- we haven’t actually spoken in a while.” Certainly it can’t have been that long.  
       “Oh dear, look at the time!” Mom speaks up, glancing at theclock over the doorway. “We’ve talked the afternoon away. I’d better get dinner started!”  
       She takes up her walking sticks and pushes herself into the kitchen. The sight is familiar to me, reminiscent of the many times she cooked when I was a much younger child. Now I’m a woman, and I could offer to help her in the kitchen- it must be easier with two working legs. But if I know my Mom she won’t take any kind of offer.  
       Dad stares complexly into my eyes. “You’ve gotten a tan,” he notes. “You never were one for the outdoors. What’s changed?”  
       “Exercise,” I say, thinking of each of my early morning walks in thecities. “Exploration. I’ve never been outside The Netherlands. It’s amazing to discover new cultures in each place we visit.”  
       “Have you made any good friends on tour?” Dad asks. “Anyone to go on your explorations with you?”  
       “Sure,” I say, shrugging. “Eric.”  
       Is it me or do Dad’s eyes narrow at the name? “You must have met more folks than just him!”  
       “Well, technically I know the whole crew,” I say. “But I’m really only close to Eric, Jack, Morleigh… and Bono,” I say, tacking the last name tothe end of my sentence like an afterthought.  
       “Bono, huh? Ah… my daughter knows real celebrities!” Dad laughs. I cringe- I’d thought I was being subtle.  
       Fortunately he doesn’t delve deeper than that. “Morleigh, is that a woman’s name?”  
       “Yeah…” I say slowly. “She’s one of the only women I’m friends with on the tour.”  
       “And the rest are men.” Dad claps his hands and leans forward to me. “Tell me, Marieke, how close is close?”  
       Oh no. As a man- and as my guardian- Dad is worried about my male friends taking advantage of me. “You needn’t trouble yourself about that,” I tell him. “They haven’t been giving me any trouble. I’m not committing to anyone either.” Except there would be one man… if he wasn’t married and didn’t take more interest in a microphone than in me.  
       Dad isn’t surprised that I’ve read his mind. “Just be careful,” he says. “Rock and roll is all fun and games until somebody loses their virginity.” He taps my chest. I struggle not to roll my eyes, unable to heed this reminder.  
       A clatter drifts from the kitchen, and my mom swears abruptly. “Damn bowls!”  
       “What are you doing?” I call.  
       An irritated hiss- “Nothing, sweetheart. I’m making dinner.”  
       “Should we help her?” I ask my dad.  
       He shrugs. “Depends on how much you value your life.” With that Dad stands and crosses the room, leaving me to believe he would throw his away in a second for my mother.  
       The dinner is a steak, which mystifies me as to what the bowls were for. Themeaning soon comes clear when much later after dinner, my mom pops into the kitchen and returns with a cake.  
“No time to ice it,” she says, maneuvering herself over to my seat on the couch with Dad’s help. “Sorry, sweetheart.”  
       I stare at the cake. It’s yellow, my favorite flavor. Mom’s made it small too, just enough for me, her, and Dad. The icing that holds it together is vanilla, my favorite kind. I briefly wonder why she couldn’t have been bothered to put it on the top… but I guess she ran out or something. Dad produces utensils and we all eat dessert.  
       “To celebrate Marie’s homecoming,” Mom says, and I’m touched. I haven’t been called Marie in forever.   
         “And an early birthday cake,” Dad adds. “Happy August.”  
       As we eat I gaze around at the faces of my family and notice Mom’s graying hair, the slight wrinkles in Dad’s face. They’re growing old- it’s a frightening thought. Soon my dad won’t be able to carry Mom to and fro anymore. How will she get around if her sticks aren’t with her? Could anyone come to help them out?  
       My sister and her husband could take care of them- but I know she won’t leave Rotterdam for theworld. All my parents’ friends are as old as they are. What if I moved back home and left Lina for good? I’m sure thedecision would yield no bad results.  
       My parents have missed me since I first moved out, in 1985. That’s a long time to wait. I’ve been permanently gone from Nijmegen, only returning for serious events- which there have not been many of. If I left the city of Rotterdam, we would live happily together here.  
       “Your room’s upstairs,” my mother reminds me, as if she needed to. I hope there are still sheets on the bed.  
     I am a woman. I can’t live with my parents forever. If something awful happens- my mom has another accident and becomes paralyzed further, or one of them contracts a fatal disease- well, then I can go back to my home. But for now, my home is still the flat.  
                                         ***  
       I awaken at six in a room stripped bare of possessions except for my own little suitcase. I dress for the weather- it’s going to be much warmer than yesterday, that I can tell from the sky- and slip downstairs withpaper and pencil in hand.  
       When Dad finds me I’m hunched over the paper, furiously writing, a bowl of cereal next to me. He turns on the light, though there’s really no reason withthe risen sun in the sky. Dad swings past the table to get breakfast for himself and points at my paper. “What are you writing?”  
       “A speech,” I say. “Where’s Mom?”  
       “Still asleep,” he answers. “Give us a break. We’re not as young as you.” I laugh. “What’s the speech for?”  
       “It’s going to be performed at the concert,” I say. “Remember? I’m being paid to write them.”  
       Dad beckons with his finger, and I surrender the script to him. He reads it confusedly. “I didn’t know you could write in English.”  
       “Apparently you can read in it,” I say. “I only have to because Bono doesn’t speak Dutch.”  
       Now it’s his turn to laugh. “Yeah, I would think not.” He hands it back to me and I tap my pencil on the table as he pours milk and makes his breakfast. We eat in silence for a bit.  
       “So are you ever going back to your old job?” Dad asks finally.  
       I think about the mess that must be waiting for me in Rotterdam. “I don’t want to, but I will eventually.”  
         “Are you leaving us today?”   
       That’s a definite yes. I’m not sure what’s going on withthe Zoo crew, but Eric and Jack will probably be expecting me to arrive. And then there’s the speech which I have to deliver to Bono, and the soundchecks to listen to…  
         “I’ll miss you, Marieke.” His voice is wistful. I want to tell him to cut the sap. I won’t be gone forever.  
       “Are you coming to the show tonight?”  
       “Do we have tickets?” Dad counters. Well, that will be hard to bypass. However, I do work for the band, and I’ve stayed backstage for shows plenty of times. They too can watch from the comfort of the sidelines. This of course is presuming they’re allowed to join me, which is a rule I think I can skirt. There’s always the hope that tickets aren’t sold out too, which is equally possible- I’m the only U2 fan I know in Nijmegen.  
       “I’m going to get your mom up,” Dad says, and leaves me alone withmy milk and cereal, which is growing colder by the second.  
       Now that Mom’s awake I watch the usual morning feat of hers- coming downstairs without using her useless legs. Dad has always helped her in this chore, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and helping to support her weight. Once she’s down she grabs hold of the banister while Dad fetches her walking sticks. I smile with fresh amusement, for I haven’t seen that performed in a while.  
       Mom and Dad eat their breakfast- I’m already done with mine- and Mom begins a pot of tea. I drift over to the window seat at the front door and sit, gazing outside. The world will always be the same. Nothing changes in Nijmegen.  
       “Sweetheart, would you like some tea?” Mom asks.  
       “No, not now,” I say. “I have to make a phone call.”  
       I grab the receiver hanging on the wall in the kitchen and pull it to the couch, creating a barrier that my parents would have to limbo-stick under to get through. Carefully I dial the hotel number that the entourage is staying in.  
       “Hello,” the receptionist on the other end says in a cheery tone, and states the name of the hotel. “What can I do for you?”  
       “Hello,” I say. “I’d like to speak to someone, please.”  
       “Well, who would that be?”  
       “Is there an Eric Vandom in the lobby?” He’s usually one of the first down.   
       “I’m sorry, ma’am, we cannot make these sort of calls,” the receptionist says stiffly.  
         Good grief. She just doesn’t want to call out the name and then feel stupid when no one answers. Not that Eric wouldn’t be there in the first place! “I’m just trying to find one of my friends. Do you have the room number of Eric Vandom?”  
       “That is not information I can release.”  
       I almost say “Give me a break,” but stop myself. “Well, can you give me Jack Stuart’s room number? Morleigh Steinberg?”  
       With those names the receptionist realizes a pattern in my asking, and says, “I don’t believe these people are your friends. I’m sorry, but you’ll not get ahold of U2’s entourage today.” The phone clanks down.  
       Jeez, what does she take me for, a fan? I’m one of the entourage myself! I hang up the phone and my dad scurries across the now open space. “Having trouble?” he asks.  
       “Yes,” I growl. “They won’t let me through.” The only solution would be to arrive at the hotel in person.  
       “Dad, can I use the car?”  
       “Why?”  
       “I have to go to the hotel.” I collect the speech from the kitchen table and search for my shoes.  
       “Can’t you stay a bit longer?” Mom asks. She’s on the verge of pleading. I feel terrible to leave them when I’ve just come home yesterday. But…  
       “Duty calls,” I say, heading back over to the table. “Where are the keys?”  
       Dad roots around in a drawer before giving them to me. “You’ll be back tonight?”  
       “I don’t know when. It depends.” It depends on if I have any work to do at all, and if thehotel lets me into their lobby. The security is surely well-trained.  
       “Bye!” my parents call, my mother unhappier than Dad, who adds, “Don’t come back without tickets to this band of yours!”  
       I’m not going to forget!  
       This is not thefirst time I’ve driven my dad’s car. It is the first time I’ve driven it in a few years. I swing out of the driveway and roll onto the street, thankful that no one is watching from their houses. Now, which direction to the hotel?  
       Theradio blares through my vehicle. I turn it down and fumble for a new channel, until I realize that this is _my_ song.  
 _Zonder liefde warme liefde  
       Lacht de duivel de zwarte duivel  
     Zonder liefde warme liefde  
     Brandt mijn hart mijn oude hart  
     Zonder liefde warme liefde  
     Sterft de zomer de droeve zomer  
     En schuurt het zand over mijn land  
     Mijn platte land mijn Vlaanderland_  
       Yes! I haven’t listened to a song in Dutch since I joined the Zoo TV Tour. In fact, pretty much all I’ve listened to is U2. And to have my name in it as well…  
 _Ai Marieke, Marieke_  
 _Revienne le temps_  
 _Revienne le temps_  
 _De Bruges et Gand_  
     A smile crosses my face as I speed down a corner, as fast as the wind.  
                                   ***  
       Bono has woken up with a different sort of song in his head.  
 _Did you crack it?  
Did you grab it?  
Did you reel it  
Like a rabbit?  
Did you walk?  
Did you run?  
Did you move this here?  
And how could you do  
And make it so, sing this song?  
Where did it all go wrong?  
Where did it all go wrong? _  
       He hums the song to himself and smiles, perplexed. It’s a silly B-side from one of the Achtung Baby singles- he just can’t remember which one. A few of the words escape him, but Bono sings through the whole song without stopping.  
       He sits on the bed, finds a pen, and begins to write something new, bearing down on the bedside table. Even with a new album out, there ain’t no rest for a songwriter.  
                                      ***   
       I’ve just arrived at the door of the entourage’s hotel and I need to get inside.  
       A simple knock might let me in. However, the answerer of the door wouldn’t open up for just anyone. Especially when I have no proof of my affiliation with U2, only the script in my hand- and they wouldn’t know what it’s for anyway. Only the band would understand.  
         Just as I’m thinking I should probably just go back home, the door opens- for me? No, it’s a crewman letting himself out. That must mean they’re going down to the stadium- a stadium I know the location of. The crewman recognizes me- “Hey Marieke. Do you want in?” He deposits me in the lobby, where I try to look like I know where I’m going.  
         There’s no sign of any of my friends. Breakfast is over by this time. I try to escape the suspicious glance of the receptionist by trotting over to the elevator and studying the floor buttons as if I’m trying to decide where to go.  
       The receptionist still has her vacant eyes thrown my way. I pray silently that I won’t have to actually ride in the elevator, and scan out of the sides of my eyes for a familiar face. The lobby is all but deserted. Surely not all of the crewmen have gone.  
       A hand claps my shoulder, and I bite back a scream- stupid of me to fear. Whirling around, I come face to face with… Eric!  
       “Thank God you’re here!” I say, switching back to English fluidly.  
       He blinks. “What are you doing here?”  
       “I thought I might have work,” I say, and step back from him.  
       Eric shakes his head. “I mean, who let you in?”  
       “A kind person,” I say. “Haven’t you got work at the stadium? You need to go.”  
       “And leave you here?” Eric asks.  
       Actually, I’m not sure what I was implying, but joining Eric in the stadium suddenly sounds quite feasible.  
       “No, I’ll join you, if you don’t mind…”  
       “Of course.” Eric draws me in. “I can’t leave you in this hotel! You have no idea where to go. Come on, the crew’s probably waiting for me. Let’s go to the stadium. Hey, what’s that paper for?” He gestures to my speech as we walk out the door.  
       Neither of us return to the hotel for a long while. After one day, I’ve missed my friends from the tour, and we get to chat happily. By noon the stage is half-constructed, practically in record time. It’s ready for U2 to start soundchecking for tomorrow’s show. I wonder again how I’m going to get my parents to the concert.  
       Laughing, Eric and I ride back to the hotel, where I take him for a drive to a restaurant. We eat on my budget, and I try teaching him more Dutch than he already knows. It _barely_ works out.  
       “Are you going home now?” Eric asks as we drive away from the restaurant.  
       “Not without giving Bono his speech,” I say, making for the hotel.  
       “Won’t the band be at the stadium by now?”  
       I silently turn around.  
       Eric was right- U2 is at the stadium, and I hear them before I see them. Once back inside, my heart leaps with joy. I’ve missed not only Bono, but the whole group as well.  
       Every step I take leads me to the stage, and the faces of the band grow clearer. Edge and Adam are playing Bad. I don’t see Larry at first, nearly hidden behind the drum kit. Bono, however, is right up front as he should be, not singing, just messing around with a microphone. He takes it from its stand and dances down the catwalk, a blur of motion in a calmer song.  
       “Hey!” I call to them, waving my arms. “Hello!”  
         Edge stops his hushed melody of chords to wave back and smile. Obviously he hasn’t returned to reality after being jolted from themusic world. Adam stops playing instantly and calls, “Hallo, Marieke!”  
       Larry adds a call of “Hey” without a smile- I can see in his eyes that he’s pleased to see me, though- and the man I’ve wanted attention from the most stops his travel down to the B stage and gives a huge exaggerated wave, complete with a cheesy smile. I laugh without moving my eyes, drinking in the sight of Bono.  
       “So this is your country,” Bono says, hopping off the stage and striding over to meet me. His arms are firm, muscular- and bare… He carries the microphone in one hand and blinks baby blue eyes at me.  
 _Get your head out of the clouds!_  
         “… it’s always surprising, you know, when you change your perspective,” Bono is saying. “I’ve been to Holland previously, but everything changes when I look at it through your eyes.”  
       I nod curtly, betraying no emotion. “It is very different.” As he comes within arm’s length, I hand him the script. God, but I’ve missed him!  
       “You’re not going to jump offstage in the middle of the real performance?” comes a woman’s voice. Morleigh’s.  
         I break away from Bono and wave to her. “Hey!”  
       “Hey,” Morleigh calls back, stepping out with an amused smile.  
         “Of course I won’t jump offstage. Marieke’s not going to be there,” mutters Bono, already reading my script.  
       I raise my eyebrow. “You’d dance with me?”  
         He lowers the paper to give me a wink. “What do you think?”  
         My knees are very close to buckling.   
       “Hey, let’s get back on track,” Adam says from the stage. He plays a chord on his bass- a note that I recognize. It makes me proud of my musical skills. “Are we finished with Bad?”  
         “I dunno, are we?” Bono asks, dashing back onstage. “Angel, I’ll get to this in a minute,” he says. “Just wait that long.”  
         I shrug. “Can I play bass while I wait?”  
         “I think so,” Adam says. “There’s surely one backstage. Go find Stuart, he’s around here somewhere.”   
         “See you!” I tell the band and Morleigh, and make my exit.  
         Backstage I bump into Bill- haven’t seen him in a while- and a few other folks, but not Stuart. I do, however, find one of the many basses Adam could have been referring to, and take one up. Slowly, very slowly, I tap out the bassline for New Year’s Day by ear.  
       The two easiest basslines, I’ve realized, are With or Without You and New Year’s Day. The rest of U2’s basslines are harder to puzzle out. A lot of them I’ve never heard clearly before.  
       A cry comes from the stage, Bono’s voice projected through a microphone at top volume. It transfers into “Where the streets have no name… where the streets have no name… still building then burning down love!”  
       I hear Adam’s bass, and quickly join in withmy own notes, messing up frequently but sticking to it the best I can. Finally the song ends, and I hear Bono’s laughter- did he think my playing was funny? No, I wasn’t plugged into an amp, must have been something onstage I can’t see. At once Adam appears by my side, cradling his instrument.  
       “Would you like to play this one?” He offers theguitar to me as if it’s made of diamonds.  
       I stroke the obvious object of affection. Judging from the sound it has produced onstage, this bass is the real deal. I play once vibrating note, and onstage the sound is amplified.  
       I turn and stroll onto the stage, carefully playing the bassline for With or Without You. I take Adam’s place on stage left, concentrating hard, and Edge joins in on the song, surprising me. The riff doesn’t sound thesame as what Edge usually plays each night- maybe he’s using thewrong guitar. Yet he doesn’t stop, and Larry hits the drums, creating that thunderous sound I’ve always liked about the song.  
       Bono turns to us, his microphone clutched in both hands. “See the stone,” he murmurs, lifting it higher to his mouth, “set in your eyes. See thethorn twist in your side. I wait… for you…”  
       His voice is haunting. At once I can’t tell which way is up and which is down, and consequentially screw up the bassline. I drop my hands and step back, hoisting thebass over my head.  
       “That’s great,” Larry says. “Marieke, great playing there.”  
       I give Adam his guitar back.  
       “Let’s start over?” Bono suggests, drifting towards my spot onstage. Does he _have_ to be so close? The air feels heavy, and I feel trapped. It’s time to go.  
“I… think I’m leaving,” I say, foolish eyes still fastened on Bono- _look away, you idiot!_ A ghost of a feeling- a wanting- closes in on me.  
       “We have to work the phone call out,” Bono states uncertainly. I know the whole band is watching me. The pressure is intense.  
         “I don’t feel well,” I murmur, backing up. If I get out of here, maybe the power will lessen. Where is it coming from?  
       Bono catches on. “Ah, I see. Well, you go home, and I hope you feel better.” I nod, and manage to start a “Goodbye” to the other band members before Bono touches me.  
       It’s a normal hug, the kind of embrace two friends would give before parting, and it should only last a few seconds. However, withthe sensation of his hands on my body, my eyes roll back in my head and I cling on, fervently pressing my body to his. My vision blurs- I don’t know what I’m doing- and Bono pulls away from me, where I stand alone, trembling, creeping away backstage.  
      “Bye, guys,” I say, gathering composure and feeling sorry for myself. How am I supposed to interact with Bono like a normal human being, when with every touch of his, even the most casual, I want to thread my tongue through his earring hoop or push him to the ground? It’s crazy lust I’m facing now. _Get off the stage!_  
         “Bye, Marieke,” chorus the blending voices that I can’t hear. I push off, run backstage, and walk back to the car, towing Eric along withme. What have I learned from these few minutes? Avoiding the Bono makes theBono more desirable.  
       It isn’t until much later that I realize I’ve stolen a bass as well.  
       Eric plays withthe knobs on the neck of the guitar as I sing along to the song on the radio. His green eyes close. “You have a great voice.”  
       “Oh, it’s just singing,” I say. Personally I’ve never thought I’m particularly good at it. High notes destroy my capabilities. The only notes in my range are very low, and that’s not an admirable quality for a singer- unless they’re male, of course.  
         “I rarely hear you speak Dutch, much less sing in it” Eric points out, strumming randomly on the guitar. “Hey, we’re gonna give this back to Stuart, right?”  
         “I need one to practice,” I say, and turn into the hotel parking lot. “You get out now.”  
       “Aww…” Eric answers in mock-disappointment. “When will I see you again?”  
       “Whenever you can,” I say. “You’re not coming home with me. Get out!”  
       Eric sighs, overexaggerating the sound, and clambers out of the car. ”See you!”  
         I give him a tilt of my hand and pull out.  
         Where to now? I suppose I should go back home. Mom and Dad are probably waiting for me. I start off in the direction of the house.  
         But I remember that Dad told me not to come home until I’ve gotten two tickets to the show tomorrow.  
         I swerve in a new direction, not sure where I’m heading now. Darn it, I have to go back to the stadium and find out if the show’s sold out, then obtain tickets… and I’ll have to face that incredible lust again when I meet Bono. And he’ll want to go over my phone call…  
       I pull over and slump in my seat. The traffic is light, and nobody’s going to care if I’m not on the road. I can stay for as long as I want.  
       It’s time for me to be human- be myself.  
       I’m a woman. I have lived for nearly thirty years now, and I’ve had crushes and boyfriends and the like. I’ve fancied myself in love with several men- some of whom were downright nasty, but what can I say? Love is blindness. I’ve attracted the attention of scores of flirts from all over- it’s a wonder no women have developed crushes on me so far.   
       What Dad says is true- I haven’t lost my virginity yet. My relationships, however many, would never- could never- go as far as all the way. What was the point? I find it funny, now, that Lina has been in fewer relationships than me and yet she is the one to score a longtime boyfriend. Lina… A pang of worry hits me as I think of her. I’ve attempted to call her so many times, but she never picks up the phone anymore.  
         Bono could have been any one of those other men, I suppose. Like any crush, it’s best to move on. But how? I can only do that if we part ways forever. I had never taken interest in him until I met him personally.  
         I’m not despairing over a love that cannot be. I’m not crying, whining, gnashing my teeth and throwing tantrums. As I learned early on- and am relearning now- complaint won’t get you anywhere. Accept your situation and do what you can with it.  
         I am a woman, and it’s taken me thirteen years to realize it. The lack of this knowledge can be attributed to U2. I’ve aged more slowly after discovering the band. Dump the schoolgirl act, Marieke- you are an adult. I can take matters in my own hands.   
                                         ***  
       I crack the door open slowly, hesitating before entering theroom. “Hello?”  
         “Angel! Glad you could make it back.” Bono’s looking even sexier than usual, if such a thing is possible. His eyes are welcoming.  
         “Where’s the speech?” I ask, entering the room and closing the door behind me.  
“I’ve got it,” he says, but the paper he hands to me isn’t my own handwriting. I squint. “What’s this?”  
       “Oh dear, what did I give you?” Bono asks, snatching the paper away. “Just some lyrics I was working on, nothing major.” He searches for my script.  
       “Is that it?” I ask, pointing to the edge of a paper sticking out from behind a couch cushion.  
       “Why, yes it is.” Bono yanks the paper out, and I hold my breath, hoping he didn’t tear it.  
       “It’s excellent, Angel,” he says, plopping down on his bed. I can’t help but join him.  
         Sitting so close, our heads bent over the same piece of paper, I can count every breath drawn through Bono’s lungs. He hasn’t spoken yet.  
         “What are you waiting for?” I ask.  
       “I’m waiting for you.” He sprawls out on the bed, horizontal, and I try to resist the urge to pet his body.  
“What do you…” My throat catches. He’s beyond perfect.  
         “…want…”  
       It’s suddenly too much. I have to get away from him- why aren’t I leaving the room? My body is frozen while my mind says _back off._ I lean over him, trying to act casual.  
       His face is too irresistible.  
       The wanting I’ve held back since this afternoon floods over me, and I drop myself over his body, smashing my lips against his own. I’ve never kissed this man before… but he’s kissed me, in Bologna. I can almost taste him.  
         A feeling of horror runs through me, and I pull away. What have I done? Bono is married! “I’m so sorry-“ I begin.  
         “Hush,” he says, closing my lips with his fingers. “Don’t be sorry.” His eyes are wild, frightened- and eager. He wants me.  
         I cautiously kiss him again, and now I can’t stop. His hands latch around my back and push my shirt up. I can’t unlock my mouth from his for anything.  
         And I awaken.  
         I’m alone in my father’s car, and it’s raining. The water washes over my windshield, and I straighten myself in my seat- the seatbelt is still buckled around my thin body- and turn the car on.  
       The first place to visit is down at the stadium. Even without entering I can tell no one is here. The band wouldn’t be working in this weather.  
         I speed back to the hotel, determined to meet Bono. Even if he’s not in love withme as I dreamed, we still need to go over that phone call. And I need to get tickets to the show for my parents.  
         After a few steps in the rain, I enter the building with my curls hanging bedraggled down my neck. The hotel lobby comforts me. In here it’s safe and warm. The receptionist from this morning recognizes me, and narrows her eyes. I can’t let her know I don’t belong here. Truly, I should just fess up to her, but I don’t want to. It’s risky- there’s no Eric to get me out of the situation now.  
         “Ma’am, can you come over here, please?” The receptionist’s eyes have zeroed in on me. I pretend not to notice, ignoring her.  
       “Excuse me, ma’am?” Her tone is steelier. “Can you come over here, please?” It’s no use disobeying, so I walk up to the desk.  
         “What is it?” I ask, playing the part of a startled, confused woman who entered the wrong hotel.   
       “Ma’am, can I have your name, please?” She’s recognized my voice from the phone call earlier this morning.  
         “It’s Marieke. Marieke Lang,” I say, knowing full well what she’s about to do.  
       “This hotel has no record of a Marieke Lang checking in during the past week,” the receptionist says.  
       “Oh God, I’m sorry, I must have gotten lost…”  
         “You need to get out of this hotel. Who let you in?” the receptionist asks, finger on her walkie-talkie.  
         “I did,” a voice from behind me speaks up.  
         Both of us stare, shocked, and I turn around. Jack gazes unprotected into my eyes.   
         “She’s my friend. She works on tour with us. Give it a rest,” he tells the receptionist in Dutch.  
         Thereceptionist looks at me. “Do you know him?” she asks.  
         Yes, I do know Jack, and everything he said is true. However, the part about him letting me in is a lie. I haven’t seen him since I first left the stadium.  
       “I’m telling you, we know each other,” Jack says.  
       “Ma’am? Is this true?”   
         I find my voice. “Yes. We’re very close. I work for U2.”  
         “Why aren’t you rooming here?”  
       “If you haven’t noticed, I am Dutch,” I say. “My parents have a house here. That’s where I’m staying. Now, you don’t stop every suspicious looking person who walks through this hotel, do you? If I gave you proof of all my words, would you believe it?”  
         For effect, Jack slides his arm around my shoulder.  
       Thereceptionist has nothing to say. I can tell she wants to argue with me further, but is there a point? “Very well. Go off and hang out withyour boyfriend.”  
“Thank you,” Jack says, and lets go of me. “Come on, Marieke. I’ll take you to my room.” We enter the elevator.  
         Jack’s room is small and exactly the same as any hotel room I’ve ever stayed in, apart from several personal touches- Jack’s suitcase, shut up with some dirty clothes folded on top, and a book sitting on the bedside table with a green paperweight holding it open. Jack throws me a towel from the bathroom.  
         “You’re inexplicably wet,” he says. “Where’ve you been all this time?”  
“I fell asleep on the side of the road,” I say, hugging the towel around my shoulders with a sigh. “I was inside the car,” I clarify as Jack raises his eyebrows.  
         “Well, that’s good,” he says. “How did you get so wet, though?” He sits on the bed, and I gratefully plunk down as well.  
         “The… rain…?”   
         “Oh, it was pouring that hard?” Jack shrugs. “I wouldn’t have known.” He stands and pulls the curtains back from the window, and we stare at a clear sky, slowly evaporating puddles.  
           “Well, it’s over now,” he says, and takes a seat next to me again.  
           “Woman, you really need a haircut.”  
           “It’s just from the rain,” I say.  
         “No- how long has it been since you went to the beauty shop?” Jack reaches out and dangles a strand of hair in my face to prove his point.  
         “So what do you want to do? Give me a makeover?”  
         “Oh, it could work,” Jack says. “I’m no good with hair- believe me, I’ve tried- but I know what looks pretty on you.”  
       We sit in silence for a bit. I think I’m all dry by now.  
       “Do you know Bono’s room number?”  
       “I do, but he’s not there. The whole band has gone out… or is it just Bono and Edge? I can’t remember…” Jack bangs his fist on his head in order to knock the memory loose.  
       “I need to see Bono about my speech. He still has the script.” So typical Bono! “He has to perform it tomorrow!”  
         “Oh, now I remember,” Jack continues, seemingly oblivious to my words. “The only band member who is still here is Adam. At least to the best of my knowledge. Larry went to explore Nijmegen, and Bono and Edge are at an interview.”  
       Oh. I’ve forgotten that there’s more to being a rock band than touring and selling records. They have to consult withthe media, too. “When did they leave?” I ask.  
       “Roughly an hour from now- they left the stadium earlier,” Jack says. “It’s 16:45.”  
       “I hope Adam’s still here,” I mumble. “I’ve kidnapped a bass.” At once I start laughing, and Jack hesitantly joins in.  
       “Jack, is the show for tomorrow sold out?” I ask when I can speak.  
         He thinks. “Mmm, I’m not sure… you’ll have to ask someone else. Eric, maybe.” His eyes dart above my head. “You can stay with him until the band comes back.”  
       “Thanks,” I say, standing up. “Which room is he?”  
       “First floor, seventh on the left,” Jack answers. “See you!” I wave at him and exit.  
       Downstairs, I walk past the receptionist without another questioning. If she glares at me, maybe rolls her eyes or even smiles, I am immune to it. I staunchly walk past immaturity without even a glance in her direction, my back ramrod straight.  
       Eric answers to my knock, his eyes betraying surprise. “Oh, Marieke- what are you doing back here?”  
         “I’m in search of the band,” I say. “They’ve gone out, and I need to speak to Bono.” Eric lets me sashay in.  
       “Do you know if there are still tickets for tomorrow on sale?” I ask.  
       “Um… no, no, there aren’t any,” Eric replies, casting the door shut and walking the length of his room. “U2 must be popular in Holland.”  
       Thinking of how I’d flown out to Portugal to see the band live, I hypothesize that some of the audience consists of hardcore overseas fans like me.  
         “Did you want a seat in the audience?” Eric asks.  
         “No, it’s just that my parents need to see it,” I say. “I’m not to come home until I’ve found a way to take them to the show.”  
         “Then that’s a bummer,” says Eric. “You can never go home again.”  
       “Certainly there’s another way?” I ask. Maybe the band or crew or somebody will let me take them backstage.  
       “They could purchase passes for a meet-and-greet,” Eric starts doubtfully.   
       “Do you think if I ask one of the band members, he’ll let me take them backstage?”  
       “Um… possibly, for family of crew…” I get the feeling Eric hasn’t let his parents see him too often on tour.  
       “I’ll ask someone,” I say.  
       “You mean you’ll ask _Bono?”_  
       I have to turn my head from Eric. He keeps doing this to me- bringing up Bono’s name when we’re alone in order to watch my reactions. Does he want the secret to spread over the entire crew? Jack is a locked box- he can hold all kinds of valuables, secrets that no one but he has thekey to- but Eric is somewhat of a blabbermouth. He’s so chattery, I’m afraid of what he could say on accident. And I swear to thenonexistent deity that he’s doing this on purpose.  
       “Yes,” I say, looking back at him. “He is hopefully the first person I’ll meet when I leave this room.”  
       “So stay a while,” Eric says, catching hold of my hand.  
       I yank my wrist free. “I wish you would stop doing that.”  
       “Doing what?” he asks, confused.  
       I exhale. “Eric. You really don’t know? The touching. Thereferences to Bono. Stop embarrassing me! All the other crew members believe that we’re dating. I thought I could trust you with my secret, but you just want to make it clear that I like _you_ , and yet you’re purposefully sticking Bono into the conversation to make me feel uncomfortable. You’re giving people the wrong impression!”  
       Eric bends his brow. “Well it’s hardly a secret. I wish you could see yourself when you stare at him. You act like you’re some kind of dog, the way you go out of your way to greet him every morning, how you practically drool when talking to him, the way you stare with those devoted eyes every night… Don’t you realize, he could step all over you and you’d take it as a way of expressing emotion? He’s got you on a leash, a woman who can’t move too far away from him without choking. You’ve got to get yourself together, or you could seriously pay for this behavior.”  
       I drop my eyes, cheeks burning. Something in Eric’s tone has upset me. I tell myself he’s just speaking out of bias and envy, and I don’t behave that obviously. In fact, I KNOW I’m not obvious in the least. I am a woman. I’ve gotten myself together already, and Eric just hasn’t received the memo.  
       “That really _hurt,_ Eric,” I say. He tries to speak over me, but I hold him back withmy eyes. “Stop it. Either cut out the crap about me and you, or keep quiet and never mention this again.”  
       Eric just blinks.  
       “I think I should go,” I whisper, and leave him hanging.  
                                        ***  
       It takes a while, but I return home at 21:00, triumphant withnews just as my parents are setting the table. Mom opens her arms, and I slide into them, and we fall on the sofa. I’ve come home empty-handed- well, not to mention the bass, which I promise I’ll return to Adam tomorrow- but I have a solution to the concert woes. “You and Dad are tripping backstage tomorrow night. We’re going to hang out with U2!”  
       “That’s wonderful, sweetheart,” she says, rubbing my shoulders. “I can’t wait to meet your friends.” Dad gives me a smile, and we sit down to eat.  
     Before completely starting in on my meal, I jump up and say, “May I be excused for a moment?” Both my parents nod. I dash upstairs and return with a plain white record, the title of the album being scrawled in Sharpie on the front. _Zooropa._  
       “It’s time you got prepared,” I say. “This is the kind of music you might hear tomorrow.” I put it in our record player and smile to myself as the song I created fills the room. Mom looks a bit creeped out, and Dad is concentrating hard on his food. I know they’ve never taken too much to U2, but tomorrow they’ll be hearing over ten songs by them. They better enjoy it.  
       By the second song, Babyface- a song I’ve taken a liking to in light of recent events- they have started talking, and I have to join in. I don’t have to force them to pay attention to the music I so love.  
       Once the haunting euphoria of Lemon ends- “Just how long _is_ this song?” Dad asks, glancing at the turntable- I do see a response from Mom to the music. As soon as Stay begins, the song I chose for a fifth track, Mom drops her fork. She quickly recovers and snatches it back up, eating with gusto, but her eyes are huge. I can tell she is really paying attention to the lyrics of the song and what they mean.   
_If I could stay, then the night would give you up_  
 _Stay, and the day would keep its trust_  
 _Stay with the demons you drowned_  
 _‘ Stay with the spirits I found_  
 _Stay and the night would be enough_  
       “What’s this song called?” Mom asks.  
       “Stay,” I murmur. “Faraway, So Close.”  
       “I like it,” she tells me.  
       The next few songs fly by without any more recognition. We finish eating and I go in to wash the dishes, though I can’t hear the music from inside the kitchen. I figure Mom will be best left alone…  
       When Dad and I emerge she’s sitting on the couch, listening attentively to TheFirst Time. We join her and engage in a soft family snuggle. Dirty Day comes on, and I think that will snap us from our peace. But no one speaks up, and so as The Wanderer starts we’re in bliss. Now Johnny Cash starts singing.  
       “Who is this…?” Dad asks.  
       “Johnny Cash,” I say, giggling a bit. “It’s a musical joke. Just bear with it.”  
       We relax again, and as the song ends I forget that the record is still spinning. None of us really takes notice. We must when the alarm sounds.  
       Mom is startled, and Dad looks worried. “Where’s that coming from?” he barks. I leap up and yank the needle off the record, and we keep a stark-silence.  
       “That,” I say, “is Zooropa.”  
       “That,” my mom says, “is better than Boy.” Which for her is not saying much.  
                                         ***  
       Two people fall into sleep that night, each with separate thoughts on his or her mind.  
       Marieke goes to bed thinking about her meeting with Bono over the phone call. She’d shoved her previous _liebestraum_ to the very back of her mind and focused only on business- the writing angle she chose and what Bono thought of it. He’d praised her many times, but she had pretended not to notice.  
 _I am a woman._  
       Bono falls asleep thinking about one thing- the concert tomorrow. He muses briefly on the prospect of Marieke’s parents joining her, and wonders if they’re anything like their daughter. He goes over the set in his mind, a calming action, and slips away into unconsciousness with one lyric prominent in his brain-  
 _Where did it all go wrong?_


	30. Where Did It All Go Wrong? Part 2

       “One knight, a woman, and man, and two children get on a boat and sail away. When they return there are five people on the boat. No one got off and no one got on. How is this possible?”

       “Er…”

       “Oh, I know this one,” Jack announces. “Hardly fair, what if she doesn’t-“

       “Shut up, man, you’ll give her the answer!” Eric cries.

       I take my eyes from the window to stare puzzled at them. “The man got the woman pregnant overnight?”

       Jack laughs pleasantly while Eric says, “Good answer, but do you think a child’s riddle would be so risqué? I mean, there were kids on the boat, and who knows how big it is-“

       “Okay, okay,” I stop him, trying to conceal my mixed humor and disgust. “Was the woman already pregnant?”

       “Noooo,” Eric says with a smile. “Guess again.”

       I fold my hands exasperatingly, making sure not to disturb the man in the bus seat next to me. “The boat was literally counted as a she?”

       “Naw,” Eric says, and guffaws. Jack rolls his eyes at him.

       “Come on, Marieke, it’s not that hard!”

       “I prefer to have the answer,” I say, settling myself primly in my seat.

       “All right, all right,” Eric sighs in mock defeat. “One _knight_ got on the boat. There were already five people!”

       He prepares to laugh, but stops upon seeing my face. “You don’t get it?”

       “What’s a knight?” I ask blankly.

       “See, I told you,” Jack mutters.

       Eric is confounded. “Knight in shining armor? Rescues fair maidens from certain distress?”

       “Oh,” I sigh. “I haven’t learned that word yet.”

       “Huh.” Eric ponders. “Well, I’ll give you another one. You’re down to your last match, but you have to light the oil lamp, the fireplace, and your bathwater. What do you light first?”

       “I know this one too,” Jack says, leaning back with an air of boredom.

       I think. “The lamp?”

       “Nope,” says Eric gleefully. “Think inside the box. Think to the very _bottom_ of the box!”

       I give him a frustrated stare he won’t forget.

       “The match?”

                                               ***

       Once out of the bus I drag Eric and Jack into the stadium parking lot in search of my parents. We find each other easily, and I hug Dad as he climbs out of the driver’s seat. Mom gets out a little less hastily, using her walking sticks. I introduce them to Jack and Eric.

       “Hello,” Jack says in Dutch, extending a hand and flashing a rare, handsome smile.

       “Hello, good to meet you,” my mother answers, taking his hand while keeping her balance.

       Eric sounds awkward when he says “Hi” in English. He isn’t used to speaking Dutch, I can tell.

       “So you are Marieke’s boyfriends?” Dad asks in English. Eric laughs. “No, we’re her friends who are boys.”

       “Man-friends?” I suggest, looking on.

       Dad laughs.

       We walk around to the stadium and move to enter through the door, available to only the crewmen and, I suppose their guests. First, however, we have get by a long line of people standing in our way. “What are they doing?” I mumble to Eric.

       He looks up. “I think this is the line for the video confessional.”

       I stop. “Video confessional?”

       I’ve watched the TV screens before encores of U2 shows many a time. The crew sets up a confessional outside the stadium they’re playing at and concertgoers can enter it and confess whatever they want to the holy camera. The results are then shown in between sets.

       “What have we stopped for?” Mom asks me.

       I take a look at her and Dad, and give instructions. “You just make it through the throng of people and get to the entrance you see right there. Stand a bit away from it, and wait for me to get there.” They nod and hug me, and I watch as they scurry off.

       Eric watches them go as well. “What’s happened?”

       “I told them to go on without me.” Pulling Jack and Eric closer to me, I speak in a breathy excitement. “Let’s go in the confessional!”

       Eric nods and laughs a bit- “You’ve been a bad girl, have you, Marieke?” I twirl my toe a bit- “No, but haven’t you ever wanted to go in there?”

       Jack sighs- “I guess there are some things I could do with confessing.”

       “Come on, Eric,” I say, tugging at his sleeve. “You don’t want us to leave you behind!”

       “Ah, all right,” he gives up. “I’ll join you guys.”

       We shuffle forward in the line and finally come up to the door of the confessional.

       “You go first,” I tell Eric, pushing him forward. “I want to go last.”

       “That’s fine by me,” Eric says, and enters the booth.

       It’s not long before he’s out again, and I wonder what he confessed, the man who hasn’t been a good little church kid recently. Jack enters silently, and leaves with just as many words.

       I take a deep breath and step through the threshold. There isn’t much room in the booth, only enough for about three people. It comes to me that Jack and Eric and I could have gone together… they both know what I’m about to confess, anyway.

       Placing my butt firmly on the provided seat, I gaze straight in front of me, into the depths of the camcorder that watches my every move with one red eye. “I work for U2 on their Zoo TV Tour,” I say, using my native language. “I get to hang out with this band very often- I know, you’re jealous, right- and I’ve found myself madly in love with Bono…”

       The sentence trails from my mouth as I conclude, “I confess to having unholy thoughts about a married man… and that’s all there is to say.” Upon leaving the booth, I start feeling wonderful.

     My friends and I join my parents, and I lead them through the entrance into a clockwork Zoo TV world.

       As soon as we’re backstage a perceptible change falls over Jack and Eric. They slide into their accustomed roles as crewmen, convening with other workers and receiving instructions, walking around to check if everything’s in working order. Eric is even assigned to do a mic check, which is a role he undertakes with excitement. Through the confusion I lead my parents towards the dressing room of the band.

       The stylists are fixing up each member of U2, making them look perfect for tonight. The four men greet me politely, and I beckon my parents over.

       “Here are your backstage guests for tonight,” I tell everyone.

       The first band member out of his seat is Adam, shaking free of the stylist’s grip. “It’s a pleasure to meet you!” he says, shaking my parents’ hands. “Adam Clayton.”

       They give their own names in strong accents, smiling but looking overwhelmed at the same time. Even if they don’t like U2, at least the celebrity aspect of meeting them is overpowering.

       “And we,” Larry begins, standing up, “are the rest of the band.”

       “Charmed,” says Edge. Bono laughs.

       “Mr. and Mrs. Lang, I presume?”

     “You would be right,” my mom says, flicking her own rusty English switch. “It’s great to meet the people who have been treating Marieke so well this far.”

       The rest of the band shakes hands and wander over the room. Bono, being the last one up, is also the last one to greet my parents. When he comes to Mom, his eyes change expression. As he gives his nickname, he can’t stop staring at her hands, an emotion setting in when he realizes she can’t walk.

       “I know who you are,” Mom says.

       “Yes, I’m the one Marieke’s been pattering on about, am I correct?” Bono says with a smile. I shake my head.

       “Come on, you haven’t spoken about me at all? Not even one mention of my name?” To my utter mortification, Bono bends slightly and kisses my mother’s hand.

       She doesn’t react well to it. “I’d save that for someone better than me, if you please.”

       “I’m just friendly like that.” Bono steps back at takes a slow breath. “Not to make you jealous or anything…” he assures Dad.

       Dad chuckles shortly.

       Once again Bono’s eyes travel to Mom’s walking sticks. “I’m sorry if you take offense… but, will you be able to last the whole show on your feet?”

       “Why yes,” my mother answers stiffly. “I believe I can manage, if Marieke can.”

       “Ah, you’re not as young as her,” Bono says, his voice less joking now and more serious, almost somber. I’m caught wondering what he thinks of her, what goes on in his head when he sees my mother. To take my own mind off it, I go over to the rest of the band. Bono whisks Mom off into a secluded section of the room, and Dad, after stealing glances, has to follow me.

       Soon we’re all having a blast with each other. Edge is getting along surprisingly well with my dad. Larry provides brilliant humor, and Adam attempts several times to speak Dutch, much to the chagrin of his visitors.

       “How can you take the word for _you_ and turn it into _people?”_

“The words get mixed up in my mind,” Adam defends himself.

       A few times I look back for Bono and my mother. They’re still in conversation. At my third glance I perceive that she is wrapping it up with him, and Bono returns to our side.

       “How many minutes till showtime?” he asks, which leads someone to go find Eric.

       I rush to Mom. “How was your talk?”

       “Marieke,” she says.

       “What?”

       “That man is not below flirting with old ladies!”

       I gaze over at Bono, who is still waiting for the time. “How do you know he was flirting?”

       “How do you know when a man is staring at you?” She sighs. “I don’t like him.”

       “What did you talk about?”

       “Oh, plenty of things. Mostly you, but we also discussed my disability. And U2’s music.”

       “What did he want to know?”

       “How did this happen? That was his first question. The man’s got nerve to bring up private issues like that.”

       I stare at Bono again. Now he’s been satisfied, for Eric is in here, showing Bono his watch. “Oh, really? Your watch must be slow, they can’t possibly be finished with their set yet,” I hear him say.

       “He doesn’t usually,” I reply to my mother.

       “I think he’s sweet on me.” It must be a startling thought, because Mom looks freaked.

       “Once again- how can you tell?”

       Eric chooses that moment to interrupt our conversation, breaking away dejectedly from the band. I guess his pride is hurt, because he’s resetting his wristwatch. “Oh, hi,” he mumbles, brushing past us.

       “Hey Eric.” He passes us, having a lot more work to do. I face my mom again- “So you talked about the music? What do you know about U2’s music?”

       “We didn’t talk about it very much,” Mom says. “He did ask me which songs I prefer-“

       “And?”

       “And I said my favorite is One. That’s all. Can we retrieve your father?”

       I follow her towards Dad’s direction, and think over her words. Mom likes One? I haven’t known that until now. In fact I wasn’t even aware she was familiar with any Achtung Baby material.

       We bid farewell to the band, trapped in their holding tank until the show starts, and choose a spot on stage right to watch the performances. The second opening act is still performing, as Bono had assumed, and we watch them calmly. The audience cheers.

       A few minutes is all it takes for the group to be off the stage and U2’s act prepared for. I realize, as the lights on the screens flicker with a familiar glow, that I haven’t even given one word of warning to my parents. It’s too late now. The intro onscreen runs through its usual images- usual to some, but very bizarre to the newcomers beside me.

       Something brushes my thigh. It’s Larry… no, Edge… no- I squeeze back so Adam can get onstage without touching me. The screen above the audience is where I perch my eyes, waiting for Bono’s telltale appearance as The Fly.

       The last notes of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony strain across the stage. A man rises from the darkness, offering a sign of peace. I turn all fan. “FLYYYYYY!” I know the audience would be screaming Bono’s name. I know better. The band kicks into the start of Zoo Station, and as The Fly takes the stage he playfully dangles on Adam, taking his fair time. Then the microphone’s in his hands, a lifeline to the audience-

       (Insert intro if possible)

       We erupt with freedom and joy.

       I’m detached from my parents. I never once look to see how they’re enjoying the show. I’m reduced to what I was before this journey started- a fan of a band. And that’s all there is to it.

       How many songs go by? Zoo Station. The Fly. Even Better Than The Real Thing. Mysteriosu Ways…

       And One begins. The lights dim, flash blue. Edge hasn’t started playing yet, and neither has Adam or Larry. They’re obviously waiting for something.

       All eyes are on Bono as he rubs one hand over the mic stand. “I want to dedicate this song…”he drawls. “to Name Lang, a woman I met today…”

       Mom gasps.

       “…whose accident left her… without the use of her legs.” She stiffens. “We’re One…”

       The song begins.

       I don’t watch the stage. My gaze is locked on Mom. She holds any reaction to the dedication inside herself, but by the end of the song she’s clearly moved. Dad hugs her suddenly.

       “Yeah, love, yeah love…”

       Mom is transfixed. Her hands reach towards the stage. If anyone saw her, I’m sure she’d be allowed to join the band up there. But no one takes notice, and I whisper, “I told you he’s a good guy.”

       It’s hard to judge what my dad’s favorite performance of the night will be. Mom’s is definitely One, and mine is going to be With or Without You- or any one of the encores, really. Dad is a bit harder to read. Out of my parents, he’s always been the more accepting to U2 and my addiction to them. What will he get the most out of this performance?

       Angel of Harlem is sung, and Bono playfully changes the words to “Angel of Holland” every chance he gets. I guess I’m not all that special anymore. Soon Bono goes backstage, as he does every night, and emerges in a new attire. I’m still not sure what to call this soldier-like persona. He sings Bullet The Blue Sky, and ends up on the B stage, hands in the air.

       After the anger of that song, it’s a comfort for the lullaby of Running To Stand Still to begin. The man onstage barely waits for the guitar intro before he starts singing.

       “And so she woke up… woke up from where she was, lying still. Said I, I gotta do something… about where we’re going…”

       He’s hugging himself in a way similar to MacPhisto’s embrace, but his head is up, the microphone jutting out of his headgear to leave his hands free while he sings.

       “Step on a steam train…” he whispers. “Step out of the driving rain, maybe… run from the darkness in the night?”

       His hands pull away from his sides. He raises them and cries out. “Singing ha, ha-la-la-la-de-day-yeah!”

       The audience surrounds him with their voice.

       “Ha la la la de day… ha-la-la-de-day,” he finishes. I can’t see his face, but I’m not sure what I would find there.

       Mom and Dad collectively take a breath- they’ve been holding it in since the song started, I realize. Dad tightens his grip on my mother.

       “Sweet the sin- bitter the taste, in my mouth…” The man caresses his arm in an odd, gentle way. “I see seven towers; I only see one way out.”

       I sing, blanketing the night air. “You’ve gotta cry without weeping, talk without speaking, and scream without raising your voice!”

       His voice amusingly does raise on the last line. “You know I took the poison from the poison stream… then I floated out of here. Singing…”

      He pushes up his shirt sleeve and leads us in song- “Ha-la-la-la-de-day-ay! Ha-la-la-la-de-day… ha-la-la-de-day, ay.”

       The falsetto notes sweep the stadium. Both my parents are glued to the action of the B stage. The song intensifies.

       “She runs through the streets, with eyes painted red!” he shouts. “Under a black belly of cloud in the rain…” His right arm scrubs at his left as if there’s a wasp there, and he’s trying to get it off.

       “In through a doorway, she brings me, white gold and pearls, stolen from the sea! She is raging!” The three of us gasp simultaneously at the clap of music. “She is raging! And a storm blows up in her eyes…”

       Instead of shrinking away as the album version of this song does, the band’s playing grows even wilder. “She will,” the man sings in a frenzy, tapping his arm, “suffer the needle chill! She’s running to stand…”

       The needle of a finger plunges into the skin of his wrist, seeking the vein beneath. I know I’m not the only one who has cried out at this gesture- my parents have too. The man onstage folds over the area he’s just inserted the needle into, and groans.

       The one word slides into the night as the figure remains hunched over-

       “Still.”

       Instead of backing off and fading away, the song reaches a fever-pitch with the release of the word. The man staggers back, clutching his arm. He cries out.

       “Halle, halle… hallelujah! Halle, halle… hallelujah! Halle, halle… hallelujah, halle, halle… hallelujah!” He’s choking on words, gazing up into the sky, signaling the message to us- these drugs will help you find God. Every night I’m forced into half-believing the dirty lie, the conviction with which the man sings is so great.

       My parents are shocked, I can tell. They’ve never seen the song live, and so were not prepared for the rush of emotion I encounter on a nightly basis. I want to tell them to wait for the encore. Dad looks the most surprised, as he hasn’t blinked once since the man shot himself up.

       “Halle… lu… jah,” the man finishes, and slumps over as smoke billows out from the sides of the B stage, obscuring the man from the crowd’s view. We stand here, unmoving, waiting and watching while the crowd cheers.

       And then a harmonica rings its notes, twinkling out into the night air- the man inside the smoke cloud is playing. His sad song ends soon, but the band doesn’t stop their music. The man emerges from the cloud and walks off towards the stage, stopping briefly for a moment before the lights go out. The sounds of a violin or something slide over the stadium.

       Dad gasps, “How can someone-“ He doesn’t finish his sentence, for the man is slipping past us, and I run to join him in the dressing room.

       Soon we come out, and I return to my parents as Bono returns to the stage. The guitar riff of Where The Streets Have No Name transforms the audience into something better than we are, and I feel like I have wings. Bono only gives us one smile before opening his mouth-“I want to run!”

       This being my parent’s first live Where The Streets Have No Name, I expect great excitement, and what I get from them is even more. They’re motionless, which I know means there’s even more glee beneath the surface. The red light of the screens illuminates the tear on Mom’s cheek, the ecstatic smile stretched over Dad’s mouth. I remember wanting to fall to my knees when I heard this song for the first time in concert. We all join in as Bono sings his last notes- “I wanna go there with you!”

       Then quick as a flash, the whole band is leaving the stage. Dad catches Bono’s hand as he pushes past us, and thanks him for the show. Bono smiles amusedly, and tells him, “It’s not over.”

       We return to the dressing room and I give Bono his new clothes. While I watch him dress, a tap on the shoulder startles me. It’s Eric- “Let’s watch our confessions come alive, okay?”

       “What if it’s a deep dark secret?” I mutter, turning my eyes back to Bono.

       “Um, I probably wouldn’t understand you anyway. Marieke, don’t you want to see yourself on the screen?” He tugs my arm, and I surrender with a sigh.

       We get back to the wings, where we find Jack, who seems to have already watched his own confession. “Hey, guys,” he greets us, his face red. I place my hand on his shoulder and ask in Dutch, “What can’t you have told us that you can tell to the masses?”

     “Plenty,” he answers, shrugging away from me.

       Eric stiffens as his face comes onscreen. “That’s me…”

     “Marieke!” I turn to see my parents, more specifically my mom, coming toward me.

       “What do you want?” I ask, stepping out to meet them.

       Eric calls, “Hey, where are you-“

     I’m out. “What is it?” I call to my parents in Dutch.

     My mom arrives first and settles her hand on my shoulder, nearly knocking herself off-balance. “How much longer until the encore starts?”

       “Not that long,” I assure her. “You’ll get to see my speech in action!”

       “What’s going on now?” Dad mumbles, coming up behind us. We turn towards the stage and the screen.

       Eric’s face is fading off in a sea of static, and I stumble back when I realize I’m next. My ghostly face hovers onscreen, smiling and speaking the words I’ve recorded a few hours ago.

       “I work for U2 on their Zoo TV Tour. I get to hang with this band very often- I know, you’re jealous, right- and I’ve found myself madly in love with Bono… I confess to having unholy thoughts about a married man. That’s all there is to say.” In a few seconds the next confession flies up, but the damage has been wrought. Mom and Dad stare at me.

       “Marieke, is- is that true?” my mother asks.

       “Er…” No use in denying it. “Yes.”

       They continue to stare, shocked.

       Fortunately I don’t have to say anything more when a hand brushes my shoulder. “Angel of Holland,” a British voice intones. “Time to get ready…” I turn and find myself in MacPhisto’s gaze. He gives an elegant smile. “Let’s go…” The band onstage begins Desire. I reach up to stroke MacPhisto’s cheek. He whirls and is gone, patrolling out onstage. “Lover, I’m off the streets!”

       I tear free of my parents and cluster up by Jack and Eric. I don’t want to face my mom or dad right now. How will I explain my desire for Bono to them? That has to wait for later. MacPhisto, however, cannot wait. I keep one eye on the stage and one eye on my parents, to see what sort of impression he’ll make to them.

       Mom has a sort of blank stare, and Dad is watching me more often than the stage. I pretend not to notice his expression. They do cheer when MacPhisto launches into his playful yells at the end of the song- “What a night! What a city! Zooropa! Zooorrrrropaa! Myyyyy Zooropaaa!”

       Though I’ve been holding back from expressing my love for this man, I can’t help but let a grin break through the outer edges of my face. He’s amazing.

       MacPhisto smiles to his bandmates as the money slowly drifts to Earth. “Oh, jolly good,” he sighs, smoothing his hair. “Shhh…” The audience quiets at the gentle command. I whisper to my parents. “This is the speech I’ve written.” Hopefully MacPhisto won’t decide to change anything.

       “Well… I’m not so very good at speeches, so I’ll be brief,” MacPhisto begins. I know that he is _only_ beginning. The Devil is in love with irony.

       “Look what you’ve done to me! You’ve made me very famous, and I thank you.” Whoo! This being my parent’s first taste of MacPhisto, I decided he had to use all his old catchphrases. “I know you like your pop stars to be exciting…”

       I pull Mom and Dad closer up so they can see better. Jack and Eric squeeze to make room for all of us. If one of the band members decided to make an unexpected exit, he’d have to use the other side of the stage.

       “Call me old-fashioned, but I miss the good old days,” MacPhisto sighs, half with nostalgia and half with happiness. “The Third Reich!”

       The audience boos, as do my parents. Being the Devil’s advocate, I can’t say I join in.

       “Don’t you miss the good old days, when the trains ran on time?” MacPhisto asks. I nod to myself. “Oh dear,” MacPhisto continues. “My… as God said, and he was partly right, I could live here!” The words noticeably fit my mouth better than MacPhisto’s. “I have a friend here. Heer Janmaat.”

       My parents look on, surely with an automatic flash of dislike for the name MacPhisto’s spoken. I want to point out the joke to them and ease their opinion, but I’m afraid. Janmaat is a person I hate as much as my parents- and the audience, judging on their booing.

       Seemingly oblivious, MacPhisto asks, “Shall I give him a telephone call?” And the majority is “yes.” Even if we dislike MacPhisto’s choice of men, we all can’t wait for them to speak.

       “Alright then,” MacPhisto says, opening his arms out as he moves to the back of the stage. “People give you their phone numbers when you’re famous- it’s one of the plusses. How do you pronounce that again…” He wonders out loud, practically enticing the audience to give the name up. “Heer Janmaat, my old friend!” With that he adds a few Dutch words, making me smile. I could have told him the pronunciation myself…

       MacPhisto dials and tells us the number. “070-346-9264. You can try this at home, children,” he winks, grinning slyly. We applaud. Personally I think it would be interesting to call this man myself.

       “Ja, goedenavond?”

       MacPhisto nods with a _yay_ expression painted across his face. “Hello, I’d like to speak to Heer Janmaat.”

       “He’s not here,” the man on the other end says.

       “He’s not available?”

       “No.”

       “Well,” says MacPhisto, “my name is Mr. MacPhisto and I’m a very good friend of his, and I think he’d be very disappointed not to receive my call.”

       “Yeah, but he’s not here,” the man tells him, and I picture an eye roll on the other end.

       “Could you leave him a message?”

       “I could,” the secretary answers, wary.

       MacPhisto sings. “I just called to say… I love you…”

       The receiver thumps down on the other end, the man presumably disgusted. I’m sure he thought it was a prank call. This does not deter MacPhisto from continuing his song.

       “I just called to say… how much I care…”

       Ultraviolet starts up. And MacPhisto screams, “I’M BACK!” It’s true. He’s back in Holland, the country where he was first conceived. It must be like a homecoming. Hell, this whole night is a homecoming for me! We must be channeling each other.

       I warn my parents that I tend to get very emotional during this final section of the show, but despite the warning I never really feel anything. My mind is distracted, hovering about the edges. Perhaps I’ve seen this so many times that the feeling has worn off?

       If MacPhisto hasn’t captured either of my parents’ hearts by the end of the concert, I will feel I’ve done a poor job with the speech and bringing them backstage. However, by the time With or Without You starts Mom is captivated by the performance. Dad only falls under the spell when Can’t Help Falling In Love begins. Maybe he never did understand the joke of MacPhisto, or maybe his mind is on other things, such as my confession before the encore started.

       We cheer and move away to let the band through our side of the stage. MacPhisto has vanished to stage left. I walk away, trailing after the band, and my parents and friends follow. I know Mom is going to want to talk to Bono again, and Dad will want to have a conference with me. If you ask me, I just want to go home.

       The activity backstage becomes a blur as each band member is congratulated on a show well done. Mom’s gaze flickers from face to face, amusing me- she’s searching for Bono. The three band members who are out here thank me heartily for the speech, and I return the praise. Dad is itching to speak to them- he really enjoyed this night, I can tell. Maybe he’s on his way to becoming a true U2 fan.

       Bono emerges from his dressing room and I try to make sure I’m the first person to pounce on him. “Hey, Angel! How do you think THAT show went!”

       “Fabulous,” I say. “My mother wants to speak to you.”

       “Oh?” I lead him towards Mom, who relaxes upon seeing him.

       “Thank you for tonight,” she says, feeling free enough to take ahold of his hand and squeeze.

       He beams. “You’re very welcome.”

       “Why- why did you dedicate One to me?” she asks, peering out of the corner of her eye as if watching for intruders on this conversation. I notice that she doesn’t call me away.

       “It’s simple,” Bono tells her, his voice soft. “Your story is inspiring. I don’t know if- if I could have lived like you do, without being able to walk. You lost something precious- like a voice, I could say- and- and you made the most of it. Adding that with your favorite U2 song, One, I couldn’t resist…”

       “Oh,” Mom breathes. “Well, thank you again.” They shake hands a last time and we retreat.

         Bono murmurs something in my ear just before we’re out of earshot. “Your parents are just as wonderful as you are- now I see where a girl like you came from!” I ignore his flirting and my blush as we cross the room.

       Dad is chatting eagerly with the band, wanting to know everything about their performances and how they pulled such-and-such off. Mom has to drag him away. “It’s time to go home.”

       “Are you staying with them, or coming with us, Marieke?” Adam asks me.

     I glance in my parents’ direction. “I’m going home,” I say. “You know, I need all the time I can get…”

       “We’re not going to drop dead if you leave us for a night,” Mom says, and I giggle at her. Secretly, that is the very thing I’m afraid of.

       “Adam, I have to ask-“

       “Does Stuart want the bass back?”

       I laugh. “How did you guess?”

       Adam rolls his eyes. “I noticed one of the bass guitars was missing, but didn’t think too much about it until Stuart began freaking out. I told him you’d most likely taken it.”

       “That is true, and I’m giving it back,” I say. “Come on, we need to go.” I wave goodbye to my friends as Mom and Dad head out. Eric comes over to me.

       “Bye, Marieke.” His voice is suppressed, and we embrace coolly. “I was just wondering- I mean, you don’t have to, but are we invited over?”

       “We?” I say. “Who’s we?”

       Eric flushes red. “Well, I have nothing to do tonight… seen one club, you’ve seen them all you know… and, um, I wanted to ask- well, Jack and I-“

       “Can we come over to your house?” Jack cuts in, appearing out of nowhere to lean on Eric’s shoulder.

       I look at them and think to myself, gazing past them to the band. Behind me Mom tugs at my elbow- “Come on, sweetheart”- and I begin to state my reply. “I’m not really sure…” I would rather drive home with my parents, so we can talk over the show with a heart-to-heart. On the other hand, my parents haven’t had guests over in a long time, and I haven’t gotten enough minutes with my friends in the crew.

       I turn to Mom and Dad. “Is Eric allowed to come home with us? He and Jack want to see my house.”

       “Unless they’re going to steal our valuables, go for it,” Dad says. Mom’s mouth tightens, but she agrees. “They aren’t spending the night with us, though.”

       I relay the decision to Jack and Eric, who nod. We say goodbye for a last time- by now there aren’t many people to say goodbye to- and finally leave the stadium.

       At home I show my guests around the house while Dad makes tea. Mom sits on the couch, waiting for a moment alone with me. Eric is fascinated by our home and starts asking questions, which I do my best to answer. Jack offers to help my father with the tea, and impresses him by speaking Dutch. The five of us soon settle down in the main room, having our late night snack.

       Eric and Jack are charming and put my parents in a better mood, knowing that I’m in good hands on tour. Dad particularly takes a liking to Jack, and as they talk Eric lays a hand on my shoulder and asks to speak with me. I excuse myself and we go out to the front porch.

       Eric gazes around. “This is a nice place your parents have. They’re very friendly.”

       “Yes,” I say. “This is… this was my home.” Memories overcome me.

       Eric grips the railing in both hands, and a breeze drifts through. I inch away from my friend. If he tries making a move in the dark he’ll have my parents to answer to.

       “So… if it’s not too personal, what did happen to your mother?” Eric asks. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

       In my mind’s eye I see several still-moving pictures. A hospital… my mom coming down the stairs in the morning… and one image from my imagination.

       “It was an accident,” I say. “Just how Bono described. It was a car crash…”

       My imagination fills up the space, showing me Mom’s old car colliding with another… the victim of a drunk driver and a wrong turn.

       “When did it-“

       “I don’t know.” I can barely remember a time when she didn’t use the sticks- it’s too fuzzy.

       Eric inhales. “I’m sorry.”

       “That’s okay,” I murmur, shrinking into myself. It’s not like she died. Mentally I thank the universe- fate, God, whatever you want to call it- for sparing her, something I don’t do often enough.

       “Is that all you want from me?”

       Eric turns, arms out. “Marieke, I-“

       The door creaks open and light falls across our faces. “You’re not… doing anything out here, are you?” Mom asks suspiciously.

       I walk in. “We just needed to talk.”

       “I think it’s time for your friends to leave. It’s late,” Mom tells me in Dutch.

       I wave Jack and Eric off as they start down our driveway, assuring me that they can walk back to the hotel. I suspect they just didn’t want to ask too much of my parents. Dad closes the door behind them.

       “Did you enjoy the show?” I ask when I can’t see them anymore, turning back from the window.

       “Yes,” says Dad. “That was a very exciting time. I see why you love the band so much!”

       “Yeah, every night is like that,” I say, retiring to the sofa. “And still, it never gets old.”

       We sit together in comfortable silence, not quite wanting to talk just yet. I picture Jack and Eric’s moonlit wander back to the hotel as Mom sips the dregs from her teacup.

       Eventually the silence must be broken. “Marieke…” my Mom says as she sets her teacup back on the coaster.

       “Yeah?”

       “Are you sure your friends aren’t-“

       “More than friends?” I finish, looking at Dad. We remember our conversation last morning.

         “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m getting at, sweetheart.”

       “Mom,” I say. “They’re only friends. I mean, I don’t want to commit to anyone yet. Eric… he has a lot to learn about me, but he’ll learn the lesson well. Jack is only my friend. He would never fall in love with me.”

       “But- you did mention something, in the video on the screen tonight,” Dad says.

       “Yes, about-“ Mom starts.

       “Bono,” I sigh. “Mom- it’s true. The whole confession is true. Thank God Bono was backstage at the time.”

       “You’re in love?” Dad asks. He sounds rightfully confused- I am not the one for hard crushes.

       “Yes,” I say. “I’m in love, if you can call it that. It takes two to fall in love, but I- I can’t give up on this man.”

       My throat constricts at once as Dad sighs. “I told you yesterday to be careful…”

       “And now I’ve thrown the warning away, I know, Dad. I can’t help it. It’s my heart… his charisma…” I shake my head. “So stupid,” I murmur, glancing away from my parents.

       “Well, I can see where you’re coming from with the charisma,” Mom says. “Sweetheart, are you okay?”

       I shrug my shoulders, refusing to look back at them. “I’m… somewhat okay… just a long night, too late to be discussing this.” I stand, taking up my cup and moving towards the kitchen. My parents stay silent as I clean up. Finally Dad speaks as I make for the stairs.

       “Marie… please try not to make any bad decisions. You don’t know what you have with this man. It could be the opposite of what you think. Just…”

       I stop Dad’s flow of words by taking the steps necessary to reach him and give him a hug. Mom joins in and we go up to bed later than we’d like.

         Moonlight twists over my bedroom wall, and I watch it with a heavy-lidded gaze. Idly I wonder what Bono is thinking of now, if he’s in bed yet. My hand stretches out, trying to catch the filaments of night air before they disappear. I am a woman, and I can make my own decisions about life. However, sometimes the right answer isn’t clear- and sometimes affection gets in the way.

 


	31. Darts of Pleasure

       I enter the hairdresser’s with some money and my limp brown curls. The hairdresser smiles and offers me a seat, and I lean back, thinking _Welcome to Hell._

The ordeal isn’t as bad as I’d expected, however- there’s still enough hair left on my head to form decent sized ringlets. The hairdresser gives me side bangs and trims the length down to my shoulders, which is a vast improvement. I thank her and try not to stare in every window I pass while walking down the streets of Nijmegen.

       Just as I’m attempting to avoid my reflection, an object beyond the shiny surface of a clothing store window catches my eye. I stop and peer in. The leather jacket, similar to Bono’s only brown and less shiny, beckons me with temptation. I stare down at the silver bracelet on my wrist, and run my fingers through my now straightened and shortened hair. Are leather jackets really “me?” Well, I do have enough money…

       On the plane to Glasgow I have a new piece of my ensemble to show off to Eric. He’s more distracted by the bass sitting across my lap, but once the jacket pulls away a bit his eyes light up, seeing as the shirt I’m wearing is quite tight. I shake my finger at him- “Bad boy, Eric!” He slides away from me, thoroughly embarrassed. Eric seems to be getting more and more adventurous in his exploration of my body with his eyes- and sometimes, if I let him, his hands. I’ll have to set him to rights once more.

       When we step off the plane I run to find Stuart, who needs his bass back, and nearly trip over Jack. He’s standing stock-still in the middle of the airport lot, his arms out. “Ah, Scotland!” he cries, mouth wide open, eyes dead shut. I laugh. “This is your home, right?” He shakes his head without looking at me. “I don’t live in Glasgow. But it’s all Heaven to me.”

       I push him and scurry over to Stuart, who is collecting his suitcase. “Here, have a bass,” I tell him, handing the guitar over.

       “Just my luck, _another_ piece to carry in,” Stuart sighs. I leave him trying to juggle his supplies and enter the hotel.

       Once every piece of my luggage is in its proper place and I feel human again, I head downstairs to get some fresh air. Jack is entering the hotel, so I grab his arm and ask if he can take me for a tour of the town. He agrees eagerly, and we leave.

       The sky is dull blue, with the sun disappearing behind the clouds ever so often. It’s hard to tell what time it is, but my body is set on Netherlands time zone. I have to ask Jack what the time difference between Holland and Scotland is. He replies that it is past seven, whereas we left Nijmegen after eight. I blink- it’s incredible how time can move backwards. “All depends on how you look at the world,” Jack responds, his voice gradually shifting into an accent more Scottish than Irish, and adds to that, “Stuart’s annoyed with you.”

       I glance sideways at Jack. “What did I do?”

       “You returned a bass in less than mint condition,” Jack snorts.

       My shoulders rise and fall. “He can’t expect it to be properly tuned, with all the playing I’ve done.” Jack points me in a new direction, signaling the corner we have to turn on the walkway.

       We eat lunch in town and return to the hotel at an hour past noon. Now my body is displeased, realizing that Glasgow will give me one more hour in the day than I’d prefer. To settle my thoughts, I take Zooropa downstairs for an easy listening.

       The first song has barely begun when the hotel door opens and in steps… Bono. He strides toward the elevator without noticing me at first, and pauses to listen to the music. Turning around, he spies me sitting alone with the turntable, just as his recorded voice starts singing.

       “Should have guessed it was you, Marieke,” he says, taking a seat to join me. “Zooropa’s been released on every format now, and you’re stuck with this old record.”

       “Records are better than CDs,” I say. “CDs are too… breakable… where did you come from?”

       “The city,” Bono answers, pulling his hands behind his head. “Lovely day for Scotland. You were out too, weren’t you?”

       I nod and clasp my hands in my lap as Zooropa moves into its finer section- _And I have no compass, and I have no map…_

Bono listens intently too. “You really love this song, right?”

       “Zooropa is my favorite song,” I say.

       He leans forward. “Oh really? I thought that was New Year’s Day?”

       “New Year’s Day is wonderful,” I say, “but it’s moved down a slot. Readjusting, you know…”

       “Ah.” Bono flops back into the chair, a thoughtful look on his face. The song wraps up. _She’s gonna dream of the world she wants to live in, She’s gonna dream out loud._

“Dream out loud,” Bono murmurs, half to himself.

       We remain in a hushed reverie, a mirage of images and lyrics tumbling through our brains that would be useless to say. Once Babyface begins I sit up straighter in my chair. “What are you planning to release next from Zooropa?”

       “I don’t know. You know, there are so many good tracks on this album… I really don’t think it would be adequate to release just one more.”

       “Then don’t. How well is Zooropa selling?”

       “Oh, it’s enough to get us by and keep this tour afloat.” Bono smiles. “I’m sure we have more than enough money to get that done.”

       I laugh. “Yes, I’m sure you do.”

       “I really would like to start performing more of these songs… I mean, Edge is excited with Numb, but you have to give the real singer his chance.” He laughs at himself. “There’s so much prospect in this album. I want to see how the songs fit into a live setting.”

       “Stay is a very good addition to the set,” I remind Bono. “I can’t wait to hear other arrangements. Have you given any thought to the phone call for Saturday?”

       “That’s your job.” Bono shakes his finger at me. “You have to remember, Marieke- the character MacPhisto owes his life to you. Write what you want, just don’t make any mistakes.”

       “That shouldn’t be hard,” I say, and snort. Numb begins on the record.

       Bono stands up. “Well, I’ll see you later.” He bends down to kiss my cheek. I ignore the way my skin flares with his touch. He won’t notice it either.

       “Goodbye, Bono,” I call, but he’s already gone.

                                                         ***

       On Friday, August 6th, Bono mounts a stage in Glasgow, looking in a satisfied way about himself at the completion of the setup. The crew has really gotten on top of their game this time. Edge is lazily trying out different guitar sounds, and Larry is adjusting his drum set. Adam is nowhere to be seen.

       “That’s great,” Bono calls, referring to Edge’s rendition of Until The End of the World. “Can we check that one from the top?”

       “Adam, get in here!” Larry yells, hitting his drumsticks against the metal on the side of a drum.

         Adam returns to the stage, smoking a cigarette. He frowns. “I haven’t gotten a chance to even touch my instrument and-“

       “Here you go,” Stuart announces, appearing from the side of the stage and surrendering a bass to Adam’s arms. “It took me forever to tune it.”

       “Don’t worry, this’ll be worth it,” Adam assures him. The band jams on Until The End of the World. Bono prances about the stage joyfully, singing his heart out.

       “You gonna dive off the stage like that in the real show?” Edge calls, stretching his fingers lightly across the guitar strings.

       “Why not- love, love, love!” Bono tries answering, jumping back onstage and rushing down the catwalk in a song.

       The truth is, he enters the audience nearly every night on this song. A few members of the crew make sure the fans don’t pull him under as they flock to his hand like fish to a baited hook. At this moment Bono is exuberant, caught up in the song. Edge hops down onto the catwalk and moves threateningly towards him.

       “Be careful!” Morleigh calls to Bono from the audience pit. “Don’t fall!” Bono in fact is so energetic in his bouncing that he could trip off the catwalk. He’s stopped singing, saving his energy for the performance tomorrow night.

       Edge jams with frenzy, tearing into the guitar as if it’s a deadly animal and he’s a hawk. Bono lunges in, getting in Edge’s way, trying to bug him out of the riff. Edge leans forward, gaining on Bono with every new inch. No one’s noticed that Adam had stopped playing when Bono stopped singing.

       “Don’t go over the edge!” Morleigh warns as Bono’s leg inches dangerously close to her, feet poised to move backwards.

       “Which Edge?” Bono shouts.

       The Edge himself rolls his eyes and darts in, finishing the song with a kiss on Bono’s cheek. Bono backs away and scrapes the area Edge has kissed, an automatic gesture.

         “You didn’t have to follow through,” he says.

       “But you’re just _sooo_ irresistible,” Edge snickers, backing away. “Wait, where’s Adam?”

       “That was… good,” Morleigh informs Bono. “Try putting as much fire into every performance- although make sure not to get too out of control.”

       Bono laughs, eyeing the sky. “Thanks. I sort of forgot that the show’s tomorrow and not tonight…”

       The clouds above their heads heave their burden onto the ground, and raindrops begin splattering.

       “Damn it! Wait for me!” Bono calls, scurrying onto the main stage and following the rest of the band as they move all equipment to the underground. “Ain’t no rain on _my_ stage,” Bono huffs, helping Larry with his drum kit. Adam is to be found in this area, talking with his technician.

       “That wasn’t as exciting as you promised,” Stuart is saying. “There wasn’t anything wrong with the bass, was there?”

       “No,” Adam says. “I have to do something… see you guys!” he finishes as the rest of the band drop their equipment. Adam dashes off.

         “What’s gotten into him?” Larry asks.

       Bono shrugs. “Dunno.”

       He pulls on a jacket, loathe to wait for the rain to clear. He doesn’t want to practice any more. Bidding farewell to his friends, Bono walks out of the stadium with a phone call on the mind. He’s restless, unable to concentrate on one task at a time today.

       On the ride back to the hotel, the sun makes an appearance, breaking through the cloudy rain. Bono stares at it, blinking hard. His heart leaps, and words spring to his lips. He presses them together, keeping the song locked inside.

       _She’s gonna dream of the world she wants to live in_

_She’s gonna dream out loud_

_Dream out loud_

***

       I’m pleasantly surprised when Bono arrives at the hotel to discuss the phone call. I’ve been trying to write one, but no ideas come to mind. My brain is exhausted of creativity. Bono helps me by naming a few people he’s considered calling, and I pick the most interesting one. With Bono’s help, I write the speech.

       “Here’s your payment, Angel,” Bono says sweetly, slipping the money into my hand.

       “Why thank you,” I answer. We stand up.

       “Bono, are you going to stick around here?”

       “No,” he replies. “Nothing to do. Course, there’s nothing to do down there either…” He indicates the direction of the stadium.

       “Where are you going?”

       “Wherever they need me. I might explore Glasgow some more.”

       I’m about to say I’d love to go with him, but the need for privacy occurs to me. I’ve been sticking around with too many people lately- I rarely get a time to myself. To help conquer the sadness that washes over me when I realize this, I keep my mouth shut on the offer.

       “See you,” Bono says, kissing my cheek and darting out. I rub my face in a soft daze. What should I do now?

       My hand drifts to the phone at the side of the bed. I take it up, staring down at the numbers, and punch in the number for Herman’s office. He’ll be at work by now. I’m sure Lina, being his secretary, is also there.

       “Hello?”

       “Hello, Herman. It’s Marieke,” I say.

       He pauses. “Are you trying to reach Lina?”

       “I want to speak to her,” I say.

       “Why didn’t you call her line?”

       “She would know it was me if I spoke one word. She won’t know it’s me if you call her in.”

       “Marieke…” I can see Herman’s chest expand in my mind, watch his eyes falling to glance at whatever he’s working on before closing them. “What are your interests in speaking with her?”

       “She’s my closest friend,” I say, a little too defensively. Calming my voice, I continue with, “I was just in Holland a few days ago.”

       “You were? You weren’t in Rotterdam, were you?” Herman asks.

       “No, I was in Nijmegen. My mother told me there that Lina had called them- called their house- and I want to know what that’s all about. Lina isn’t doing too well, is she?”

       A sigh, and a “No. She- she keeps pushing me away. I don’t know what to do with her because I can’t find out what’s wrong.”

        We both pause, and Herman says, “She’s in the adjacent room right now.”

       “Oh, okay,” I say, catching his drift. “Do you want me to hang up?”

       “That would be a good idea- wait! Marieke. Can you give me your number?”

       “Why?” I ask

     “So I can call you if you need to take an emergency flight out here.” We both think of the unspoken. _Why haven’t I flown out yet?!_

I tell Herman the phone number for my room, and we hang up. The long-missed voice of a friend had been so close in connection, but I’d done nothing to reach out.

                                                           ***

       Minutes before U2’s first opening act takes the stage in Glasgow, Bono hears a snatch of words floating past. They are familiar lyrics, sung by a woman with a deep voice.

       “Babyface, babyface… slow down child, let me untie your lace…”

       Bono follows the sound to its source. “Angel.”

       “Hey,” Marieke says, pausing in her song. She stands from the seat she’s taken in the dressing room. “What do you want?”

       Bono shakes his head. “Nothing, nothing…”

       “You heard me singing.” She knows it for certain, he can tell, but asks anyway.

       “Yes,” Bono says, fingering his earring and the lock of black hair that’s slipped from behind his head. “Babyface, huh?”

       “It’s a good song,” she says, shrugging. “Would you rather I sing something else?”

       “Hey, I’m the singer here,” Bono protests. “I don’t want to be upstaged!”

       Marieke’s eyes drop. “You’re not. I’m awful anyway.”

       “Oh, hush, love. You’re not awful, just unadjusted.” Bono sits down next to her, and the stylists swarm.

       “Unadjusted? What do you mean?” She steeples her fingers.

         Bono clears his throat. “Em, you’re just not used to singing U2 songs. Your voice doesn’t fit for it.”

         “I have a lower range than most women,” Marieke starts.

       “If you really want to sing, I could help with that.”

       Her blue eyes roll. “As if bass lessons weren’t enough!”

       Bono shrugs. “Suit yourself. Oh… did you cut your hair?”

       Marieke stares at him, her hand unconsciously ruffling her curls. “Yes, right before we left Holland.”

       “It’s very-“ Bono begins, but Larry and Edge cut him off when they enter the room. Larry’s gaze pinpoints Marieke, sweeping across her for a few seconds before sitting down to get fixed up. He opens his mouth to speak, but gives up when Edge speaks first, asking Bono where Adam is.

       “Haven’t seen him since we arrived,” Bono says, scratching his chin. Edge leans back in his chair. Next to Bono, Marieke sings quietly. “Zooropa, vorsprung du technik…”

       Larry eventually manages to sneak in a few words to Marieke before the band must take to the stage. Bono’s head is still singing Zooropa, and he can’t help but stare out at Marieke’s exchange of words with the drummer. What are they talking about?

     Bono feels her presence by the side of the stage even while he’s on it. It’s a very dull point of wanting, something altogether too easy to ignore. Bono sings his heart out with Zoo Station, and pushes the wanting aside, forgetting Marieke.

       As I watch the show under the protection of Eric’s arm, my mind wanders away from the action onstage. I run through my conversation with Larry in my head, and ponder his words. He’s becoming quite friendly with me.

       “Have you been enjoying yourself in Glasgow?” Larry had asked me, his arms folded behind his back. Through the piercing blue eyes I’d seen a softness, a willingness to keep me safe

       “Yes, it’s quite an interesting town. Jack’s been showing me around the place.”

       “Ah, right, because he lives here.” Larry’s voice is undeniably handsomer than Bono’s, but I am reluctant to admit it. ”In Scotland. Not unlike our Ireland, if you think too hard about it.”

     “I haven’t seen much of Ireland,” I confess.

       “Well, we’re going to have to take you there again.” His eyes had caught on my silver bracelet, and then on my face. He’d been silent for the lapse of a few seconds, before finally murmuring “See you” and taking off.

       Bono onstage is overjoyed, feeding on the energy of the fans. He takes Morleigh’s advice when Until The End of the World is performed, and throws all the fire he can muster into the song.

       “In the garden I was playing the tart… I kissed your lips and broke your heart… You! You were acting like it was the end of the world!”

       Edge starts his solo and Bono dances across the stage. He springs on his toes down the catwalk, begging the fans mentally to make eye contact with him.

       “Love, love, love!” he cheers, thrusting one arm out straight as he walks. “Love, love… love, love, love!”

       Edge plays a few thoughtful, ringing notes. Bono faces the audience and watched them scream. He can feel the presence of a camera behind him.

       “In my dreams I was drowning my sorrows; my sorrows, they learned to swim. Surrounding me, going down on me, spilling over the brim…”

       With that Bono dives into the audience, seeking the hands of the hidden crewman down in the pit. He’s lifted up and twists in the grip, lunging menacingly towards the fans who cluster about him. “Waves of regret, waves of joy, I reached out for the one I tried to destroy. You, you said you’d wait ‘till the end of the world.”

       The crewman lets him tumble back onstage, and Bono rolls to his feet with a cry of “Hey!” He faces the stage as billions of numbers flicker across the screen, counting down to the end of the world.

       Edge inches his way down the catwalk, shredding his guitar up. Bono faces him, leering towards his friend with a challenge in his eyes. “Is this rock and roll?” he shouts. “Is this rock and roll?!” Edge draws closer, sparks practically flying from his fingers. Bono leaps, throwing himself in Edge’s face, straining the microphone forward until his mouth is dangerously close. “La, da da da! La da da… la, da, da da! La da da…”

       The two battle it out, Bono twisting away and threatening while Edge continues to play his guitar as if it’s in flames. The drumming grows fierce from the back of the stage, and Bono yells, “THIS IS ROCK AND ROLL!” He darts in towards Edge, ready to claim himself as the winner of their battle, and Edge pecks Bono’s cheek while slinging his guitar to the side. The song has ended, and Bono’s ignited spirit goes out.

       Meanwhile, backstage, I wait for the dreaded moment, a recent low point of every show. U2 has been recently involved with the war occurring in Sarajevo right now, to the point where they wanted to do something to help. Once a plan for a journey to Sarajevo was snuffed out, a new idea came to pass. Bono has called a friend in Sarajevo each night, linking up with him, and gotten him to describe the war and what he’s going through with other families. Unsurprisingly, this has created a lot of controversy, and surprisingly, most of it has been from me.

       As Bono talks with his friend, other people approach the line to make their own personal messages. One woman rages so intensely that I have to look away in embarrassment. The crowd is very subdued- not one round of applause. I absolutely hate these linkups, but I guess U2 has to do something to help out the war effort. Though I’m not sure what good spoiling a rock concert does.

       The show wears on, and Bono returns backstage with a sweaty body and a swollen heart, pleased after singing Pride (In the Name of Love). He allows Marieke to hand over the MacPhisto outfit, and stares down at it for a moment before sighing and giving in. _Become the Devil, Bono,_ he tells himself. _Become MacPhisto._ He applies lipstick to his mouth with a careful hand, brushes back his loose strings of hair and adjusts the golden jacket that sits on his shoulders. “Ah…” he breathes as he stands, the world swirling about to resettle in new and mysterious ways. Bono is MacPhisto.

       The phone call tonight goes to Ian Lang, Scotland’s Secretary of State. Bono-inside-MacPhisto remembers how Marieke had giggled at the similarity between his name and her own. MacPhisto even now can feel her standing by the stage, and knows if he turns he would find her exactly the way he pictures her now in his mind. The pressure tugs at him, nearly forcing him to pull her onstage. He can’t bury his wanting now, but lets it out in words and a song.

       MacPhisto ends the entire show with a few words of simplicity and rent pleasure. As he backs away from the audience, his hand circles in the air, pulling words from himself and planting them in the fans. “I can’t help falling in love with you…”

       Marieke, he knows, is staring out at him, possibly with tears dried on her cheeks. MacPhisto shifts his gaze the smallest bit towards her, and their eyes meet. His breath slows, even as his movements do not.

       “But I can’t help falling in love with you…”

       Moments later, he’s backstage and goes by the name of Bono again. The show has drained his energy, just like every night prior to this one. Bono wonders if he’ll ever get used to it. Some things, like nervousness before a show and exhaustion afterwards, never seem to go away.

       As Bono strides out with a smile on his face, the very first observation he makes is the lack of Marieke. Where’s she gone? Why should he care? Bono shakes himself off, telling himself that Marieke can do what she likes without Bono knowing about it.

       I am in a restaurant at this time, sharing a night with Jack. He passes the menu over to me. “Traditional Scottish cuisine,” he says, tapping his finger against one dish on the list. “What do you think of that, Marieke?”

       I follow where he’s pointing with my eyes. “Haggis?”

       “You can’t have visited Scotland and not tried this,” Jack says.

     I raise my brow. “Is that a challenge?”

       “Read the description and decide,” Jack offers.

       I read the description of Jack’s meal of choice. It sounds bizarre, but- “Surprisingly appetizing,” I say, handing the menu back.

       “Let’s get one for two of us,” Jack says, and we order as soon as the waiter comes back over.

       We try to make small talk while waiting for dinner to arrive, but Jack’s brown eyes are gazing too seriously into mine. “Marieke, I’ve noticed something…”

       “Go on?”

       “Have you realized how many people on this tour are in love with you? And you’re just devoted to a man you can’t have.”

       My hand ceases in its playing with a slippery glass. “What? Who’s in love with me, Jack?”

       “You…” Jack eyes me. “I’m not sure if you want to know it all. They can have you, you know. You just don’t want to give yourself to them.”

       My breath comes fast. “How do you know this?”

       Jack looks uncomfortable. “I… I can just tell, Marieke. It’s clear to me…” Obviously having trouble articulating, he downs some of his drink and, licking his lips, says “We all know you can’t get what you want, though.”

       I stare into my own glass, a bit angry. “It’s not sensible, I know. I can’t stop wanting him.”

       “If I were you I’d open my eyes and start protecting myself from the masses lying in wait for you,” Jack says. “They want you, Marieke. They want you for dates, sex… mostly sex, and they want you for life. You have to realize this.”

       My head jerks up as I struggle to hold my anger down. “Name one name, Jack, and then I’ll believe you.” I can fend off any man he tells me about- I always have. What’s Jack’s problem?

       “Larry,” Jack says quietly, naming the one name.

       I twist my head sharply, clasping my hands. “ _Larry?!”_

“You said you wanted to know,” Jack murmurs.

       I suck in a breath, looking downward. I hadn’t seen this coming, although I probably should have been able to tell from the way Larry treats me when I’m around that something was up. But still… he has a girlfriend already! Or was that a lie to make sure I don’t come too close?

       “Jack, please don’t tell me any more.” I don’t need to know how many men fancy me when I only fancy one of them.

       “Not even Bono?” Jack asks, blinking at me.

       My breath scrapes harshly in my throat. “What about Bono?”

       “I could tell you if he loves you or not,” Jack says.

       I hasten away from this tempting offer- “No, Jack, no, He doesn’t love me. We all know he doesn’t love me. Don’t hurt me like this anymore.”

     We fall back into silence until I ask, “Are _you_ in love with me?”

       “No.” He fires the word with such force that there’s really no denying the truth. A pause follows. For the first time I can hear the song on the radio, loud and clear.

       _You can feel my lips undress your eyes_

_Undress your eyes_

_Undress your eyes_

_Words of love and words so leisured_

_Words are poison, darts of pleasure_

_Die, and so you died_

When Jack next speaks, it’s in an embarrassingly awkward voice. “But actually, when I first saw you… woman… my only thought was- Who’s this sexy bitch?”

       My laughter rings across the table and I practically inhale my drink. The main course arrives soon after, and I’ve never tasted anything better.

                                                                     ***

       The following day is going to be a busy one for U2. Between their scheduled activities, the band has to practice their music at the stadium and think up how on Earth they’re going to change the setlist for the second night in Glasgow. Bono is in a frenzy, making a list of songs in his head. He wants badly to debut a new one from Zooropa for this show- the fans who went to the show last night will most likely be coming to this one again, and they deserve a new treat. Bono is humming music under his breath when he steps onstage down at the stadium.

       “Hey Adam,” he greets the bassist, the only other man onstage. Adam waves with a slightly distracted smile. Bono knows he’s had a lot of stuff on his mind recently, and won’t dare ask what it is. He wants Adam to work it out for himself.

       Bono idly slaps his hand against his leg to the beat of the song in his head. Unconsciously he starts singing it under his breath as he moves backstage- “No particular placements, no particular songs. I’ve been hiding, what am I hiding from?”

       Edge greets him backstage, but Bono is too distracted by his internal music to do nothing more but nod. “Don’t worry baby, it’ll be all right, uncertainty could be the guiding light…”

       “Zoooo,” Edge sings cautiously as backup vocals.

       Bono faces him with a soft smile on his lips. “I hear voices, ridiculous voices… skip the subway, let’s go to the overground!”

       Both men sing the crucial line at the same time.

       “Get your head out of the mud, baby!”

       Bono backs away, laughing and running his hand through his hair, while Edge points two fingers at him, a knowing smile on his face. “Let’s give it up for… Bono!”

       “And let’s not forget The Edge,” Bono says. “Great singing, my friend, great singing. And happy birthday!”

       Edge laughs- it sounds more like a cough- while simultaneously puffing with pride.“Well, now we’ve caught up in age. Why Zooropa?”

       “Oh, I’ve heard Marieke playing that album for too much-“ Bono suddenly stops and thinks. _Zooropa?!_ All at once, the idea that has been seeded in his brain sprouts and blossoms into something better.

       “My God, Edge, wouldn’t it be amazing if we could pull off playing Zooropa live?”

       Edge shrugs, but Bono notices the telltale spark in his eye. “It would take a lot of work.”

       “Come on, not that much. You can recreate the sound, can’t you?”

       “I’ll go get my guitar.” Edge races off.

       Onstage, Adam is pushed a ways aside as Edge sets up equipment- a properly tuned guitar, an amp, and the wah-wah and delay pedals. He knows how to play the guitar like he knows that food and water will keep him alive. It’s practically an instinct now, something deeply rooted in him that he can’t remove from his soul. He begins to play, starting at the point where the song kaleidoscopes into Zooropa part two- the song that Marieke helped make.

       Bono, recognizing his entrance, grips a microphone in both hands. “And I have no compass, and I have no map!” he shouts.

       Adam glances up from his work to frantically locate the bassline for Zooropa from the back of his brain. He starts playing. The band is sorely in need of a drummer to help keep time, thus causing the performance to fall apart after a few more words are sung.

       Adam rubs his hands together. “We need Larry out here.”

       “Right,” Bono says. “I’ll call him in.” He starts moving backstage, but Edge grabs his sleeve and pulls him back. “Wait. We need to decide how we’re going to play Zooropa if we really want to do it live.”

       Bono scratches his head. “It’s not too hard. I mean, that jamming there went pretty well.”

       “But that was after the Babble verses,” Edge points out. “That sound- that sound at the very beginning of the song, Bono, would take hours and hours of rehearsal to perfect. Possibly even days. We haven’t gotten that kind of time.”

       “Way to drop an idea on us on the very day of a show,” Adam says.

       Bono exhales. “All right, I’m sorry. I just thought we could give the Scottish fans something new to hear instead of the same old setlist like every night. I get it now- Zooropa’s not going to work. See ya.” He departs from the stage.

       Edge and Adam glance at each other. “I really hate it when he talks that way,” Adam says.

       “Makes you want to play the song, doesn’t it?” Edge asks, sidling up and slinging off his guitar. “It wouldn’t be a bad idea, honestly. I mean, we could try it for fun, right?”

       “Definitely,” Adam agrees. He waits for Edge to start the guitar riff again. Sometime during the jamming, when Edge is singing the lyrics in his head, Larry appears from the side of the stage and settles down at the drum kit, tapping out a beat.

       Bono is not in the stadium anymore. He knows that leaving is a bad idea when they’ve got so much work to do, but he can’t stand to be in there anymore- slightly fed up with the rest of the band at the moment, and needing to cool off. Out of the stadium Bono walks, and straight into a cluster of U2 fans.

     Bono smiles and chats with the fans, politely obliging to autographs and mini-interviews. At one point, just as Bono’s caught deep in conversation with one man, the noise from the stadium becomes so deafening that he has to stop his conversation and listen. The band is playing a striped-down version of Zooropa, with only bass, guitar, and drums- the vocalist is outside, standing with his fans.

       “Are you going to play Zooropa tonight?” the man Bono’s been talking to asks, wide-eyed.

       Bono grins and shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. We’ve got a ton of songs to work on- Zooropa is nothing compared to what you could be seeing.” The fans cling to his every word.

       The man nods. “I think Zooropa’s a brilliant tune from an excellent album. I just want to say, anything you play tonight is fine in my book.” With a few more words exchanged, Bono bids the fans farewell and enters the stadium once more.

       Thus Bono pays Eric to keep Marieke away from the stadium for the day while he and the rest of the band rehearse Zooropa, over and over. The screens flicker, testing different images that could be projected during the song. Bono decides to cut out the first half of Zooropa and skip straight to the best part- Zooropa II, also known as “And I have no compass…” Hopefully, Bono thinks, the performance of Zooropa will come as a surprise to Marieke. He knows it’s her favorite song, and she would love to see it performed. Another thing to be hoped for is that Marieke is doing something worthwhile with her time, like writing a speech, instead of hanging around with Eric.

       Eric is entertaining me in the oddest possible ways. As soon as I arrived at the stadium, ready to wade my way in and listen to soundchecks, Eric swings right out, stuffing some money into his pocket and waving valiantly at me. “Hi, Marieke! What are you doing here?”

       “Looking for something to do,” I answer, sliding my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket. “You’re leaving, Eric?” I can hear strains of music drifting from inside the stadium, and my heart pounds with excitement.

       “Yeah, I am,” he says, eyes shining out at me. “Come, let’s go for a walk.”

       “I just finished my walk,” I say. “I want to hear the band rehearse.”

       “That’s what you do every day!” Eric exclaims, catching my hand. “I miss you. Let’s go, okay?” He begins to take me off in a new direction.

        “No thank you,” I answer, removing myself from his grip. “I’ll see you later when the soundcheck is over!”

         Eric maneuvers himself over to me, placing his hands on my shoulders. “I’ve barely seen Glasgow- can’t you show me around?” His eyes are pleading for me to stay.

       I sigh, turning my head towards the stadium and back to him. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

       “…No…”

       “Yes, you are. I’m not going with you, okay?” I turn towards the stadium at last and head into the group of fans outside.

       “Marieke!” I hear Eric calling from behind me. “I have to tell you something…”

     He catches up to me. I twist and grapple him off. “What is it?”

     Eric opens his mouth- “Why”- but changes the words immediately. “Have you gotten started on your script yet? The phone call for tonight?”

       Now that he mentions it… “Er, no.” I haven’t even asked Bono who we should call. “Are you suggesting I should get to work?”

       “Maybe I can help you.” Eric offers his arm. I shake my head and stroll in the opposite direction of the stadium.

       “Why are you wearing a jacket, anyway?” Eric’s voice calls from behind me.

       “It rained a few days ago!” I won’t tell him that the coat is pure vanity.

       Somehow Eric does end up helping me write the phone call. There are a lot of basic ideas that I have to put forth to him- ideas like who the character MacPhisto is and what he wants. Eric slowly seems to grasp it, and actually manages to come up with a few clever thoughts. I embellish the script happily, writing about an unnamed person. The details will be added by Bono.

       “Are you going anywhere now?” Eric asks.

       “Well, I’ve got to present this to the band…”

       “Why don’t you wait for them to return?” Eric hastily suggests- a bit too hastily, if you ask me.

       “Is there a reason you don’t want me to see the band today?” Maybe he’s growing too jealous of Bono.

       “Marieke. You see them a _ll the time!_ Give it a break. Spend some time with someone else.”

       “I’m not staying with you the whole day.” With those words I stand and walk from the hotel lobby. There is always an alternative- that I listen to Zooropa- but I’d rather see the man that Eric’s been so awkwardly keeping me away from.

       Bono receives a call from Eric, who is at the hotel. Apparently Marieke has left the hotel with a speech that’s ready to be given to Bono. Eric claims he can’t contain her. Bono rolls his eyes- a movement Eric thankfully won’t be able to see- and tells Eric to stay put. “She’s a free woman, Eric. She can do what she likes.” He hangs up and makes the rest of U2 swear that they won’t mention Zooropa to Marieke at all when she arrives.

     After wishing Edge a happy birthday, Bono and I revise the script, our heads close together, mouths moving simultaneously when we both get an idea. Bono’s eyes light on my jacket- “Are you trying to look like me?” I laugh at him and point out a key place in the speech, asking him to get back on topic. When the work is done, Bono gives me a hug. He reads the speech to a motley assembly of crewmen and band members, and I retire from the stadium soon after, taking along a bass for practice. Bono breathes a sigh of relief and prepares to leave as well.

                                                              ***

       The second night in Glasgow flows just as smoothly as the first one. Bono is exhilarated, singing Happy Birthday as a surprise for Edge, but is also careful not to waste his energy for the big surprise of Zooropa. The whole band is geared up towards the debut, excited to play such a spur of the moment song. Bono can’t get Marieke out of his thoughts.

       He stares at the side of the stage, viewing Marieke shrouded in shadow. Bono mouths “This is for you” and the screens flicker on as Edge begins the riff.

       My reaction to Zooropa is shocking. My back arches, fingernails digging down into my palms. Babble and an alien guitar riff dance across the stadium, energizing the fans in the audience. I scream, my hands flying up over my head, as Bono sidles up to the microphone and begins the song with my favorite verse.

     “And I have no compass! And I have no map! And I have no reason, no reason to get back…” Bono jerks the microphone stand, wrenching the mic from its holder. “And I have no religion, and I don’t know what’s what! And I don’t know the limit, the limit of what we’ve got!”

       The screens bathe the stage in an unearthly light as Edge backs Bono up. “Zooo…”

       “Don’t worry, baby, it’s gonna be alright! You got the right shoes to get you through the night!”

       “Zooo…”

     “It’s cold outside!” Bono yells. “But brightly lit! Skip the subway-“

     “Let’s go to the overground!” I shout from backstage, ready to break into dance.

       Bono takes a moment to eye me in my place. “Get your head out of the mud, baby!”

       My heart is swelling, taking hold of every fan in the stadium. It surprises me that they’re singing along with every word. I guess I underestimated when Bon told me Zooropa was selling well.

       “No particular placements… no particular songs. I’ve been hiding, what am I hiding from?” Bono punches the air, a smile on his face.

       “Don’t worry, baby, it’ll be alright! Uncertainty could be the guiding light! I hear voices…” He blinks appropriately at the audience. “Ridiculous voices… I’m in the slipstream! Let’s go to the overground!”

       “Get your head out of the mud, baby!” the fans- and I- yell.

       By now the euphoric Zooropa is ending. Bono stands high over the audience, smiling to himself and for them. It deepens the grin on my own face. “She’s gonna dream of the world she wants to live in…” Bono sings. “She’s gonna dream out loud!” I can’t help but think that the s _he_ could mean me.

       “Dream out loud!” Bono returns to his wonted place onstage. The band slows.

       “Dream out loud,” Bono finishes, more of a half-murmured cheer than a lyric anymore. I scream my praise from backstage. The audience goes wild with applause. Bono gazes at them, unusually staggered by their response. “Thank you!” His hand moves from his heart to a place over his head, waving them off.

       Pride closes the main set, as usual. As the band takes from the stage, I shrink back to let them pass. Edge is first, and Larry follows. I back against Eric, wondering if Larry will attempt to catch my eye. But he moves on without a glance toward me, and it’s Bono who acknowledges my presence- “All right, Angel, you come with me…” Adam brings up the rear.

       I only have time to thank Bono from the depths of my heart for playing Zooropa before it’s MacPhisto who’s up and whirling onto the stage. Bono does, however, respond to my comment- “You’re welcome, I don’t know if we’ll play it again.” He’s slid the headgear behind his ears, looking fully like the Devil sans platform shoes.

       We watch and giggle as MacPhisto tries to ring John Mayor, the British Prime Minister. “I’d just like to say that I think he’s doing an absolutely marvelous job for the people of Scotland. It must be such a headache, being in charge of them when you’re so far away. And I’d also like to say that I think he knows _exactly_ what they want- just like he does for the people of Bosnia-Herzegovina. Au revoir!” Ultraviolet starts, then With or Without You, and the pained beauty of Love Is Blindness. Tonight MacPhisto makes a word change- “A _petit mort,_ without mourning…” He’s used that phrase before, mostly in France, and it means both “little death” and something else. I prefer the something else.

       After the show, the true revelry begins as Bono plots a huge party for Edge’s birthday. I pull Jack aside- Eric is helping deconstruct the stage- and suggest we follow the crowd.

       “That’s a good idea,” Jack says. “Edge will certainly appreciate our celebration! But you can’t possibly go out in _that_.” I look down as Jack indicates my outfit, the uniform of the Zoo crew. “What’s wrong with it?”

       “Marieke, would you want someone to wear a ragged old uniform at your birthday party?”

       I consider this. Jack is right, I wouldn’t want my guests showing up in their casual clothes. Though there is a valid point that Edge doesn’t care, I’m also starting to shiver a bit in my short sleeves- the night has grown chilly for the summer. Jack’s words also seem to be a helpful reminder that I should take a shower.

       “Eric said I wouldn’t need a jacket tonight,” I sigh, hoping he’s eating his words at the very minute. “I’m going to the hotel to get it.” And freshen up and such. “Come around when you’re ready.” I toss my room keys, never far from my pocket, to Jack.

       I find the band and tell them goodbye, see them at the party, and moments later emerge from a shower, carrying a hairbrush, a box of tampons, and my silver bracelet. I thank God that Jack didn’t decide to walk in on me at this moment, and dress quickly, putting on my purple dress without sleeves. It’s a wonder what warm showers can do for you. But as I glance at the clock, I grow antsy. It’s time to leave.

       I start for the door- Jack won’t have needed my keys after all- and the phone rings. Erasing my previous thoughts, I tiptoe back to the bed and pick it up.

       “Hello?”

       “Marieke.” It’s Herman’s voice. On any other occasion I would be aggravated with his popping in, but there’s a note in his timbre that stops me from responding for a second. His voice is shaky, freaked out- badly frightened or maybe worried. My mind instantly jumps to- LINA!

       “What’s wrong? Is Lina okay? Are- are you okay?” My own voice sounds detached, compared to the panic erupting inside of me at this moment.

       Herman’s answer conveys slightly more emotion, the kind I’m covering up. “I’ve been trying to reach you for ages!”

       I glance down at the blinking light on the answering machine. “Is something wrong with Lina?!” I ask, still unable to fit my terror into my tone. This must be what is known as shock.

     “I’m- give me a moment, alright? Or two. I need to…”

       He doesn’t finish his sentence. I wait, impatient on the inside, though my body betrays nothing outwardly, just exudes calm. I’m not even tapping my fingers, waiting for Herman to answer.

     “I came to the flat tonight.” His voice jumps out when I don’t expect it, and I hone in on the sound. “For the first time in a while, she asked me over.”

       “…Go on?”

       “I arrived with words in my head,” Herman says. “I was planning to- I don’t know, to intervene, to confront her- I just wanted to demand what was going on. I had millions of ideas, ranging from the sensible to the outlandish, and I wasn’t going to… divvy from my plan.

       “She called for me to come in from behind the door. It was unlocked, and she was sitting on the couch. She was like… nothing… I’d ever seen… before.” A new touch of satisfaction, of faded delight hits Herman’s tone. “She was only wearing her undergarments, and she looked…

       “I told her she looked… great, glorious. I wanted… to, to taste- she wasn’t behaving in her usual way, not even in the way she’s acted prior to tonight. She was restless, and kept shifting. I asked if she was okay, was she sick, and she leapt off the couch- and into my arms. She ripped off my jacket-“

       “I know what happened,” I cut in. “Go on.”

       Relieved, Herman does go on. “It felt intense- she was much more aggressive than usual. She was fighting me half of the way and giving in the other half. She wanted me, but didn’t want me. I don’t know what she… was thinking…

       “She was crying after. She was crying, lying on the floor, and I was in mortal fear, practically hyperventilating- not from, er, exertion, just my heart- it was pounding so badly. I was alone in the flat with… with a woman I was starting to see as half-mad. For a moment I thought she would kill me.

       “But… she didn’t.” His voice slows, trying to recall every detail. “I got dressed. I stood up. She didn’t put anything on. She said… “I hate you!” I left the flat with screaming behind my back. She said- well, she yelled that she never wanted to see me again. Ever. Not even at work. I went home and- I’m _here.”_

Herman’s voice sounds tremor-y, and I can’t move. I can barely comprehend what he’s told me now. “Lina is…”

       “Insane,” Herman finishes. He swears by the God that he believes in. “I wish you’d been there, Marieke!”

       “That’s it,” I say. My mind is snapping into action. “I’m going straight to the airport, taking a plane-“

       The door to my room opens, and Jack’s face appears, slipping inside. He stares at me with a _should I interrupt_ expression on his face, and I shoot him a _get out_ look back.

       “Herman, I have to go. I swear, I’m not leaving you alone. I’m taking a plane out to Rotterdam first thing tomorrow, I promise you, Herman-“

       Jack’s eyebrows shoot up. In once instant his countenance has moved from shocked to wondering, or maybe a blend of both. He mouths, “ _Herman?!”_

“That’s- that’s good. Please come. You’re the only one who can-“ Herman’s voice is interrupted as Jack flies across the room and wrenches the phone from my hand.

       “Herman, is this you?” he demands, speaking in English. “Is this you? Answer me. Do you know a Jack Stuart?”

     Herman must have asked who, or what, or any question similar. “My name is Jack, Jack Stuart. Have you ever-“ and Jack begins speaking in Dutch, clumsily but fast as a bullet. I can only stand, wondering for the life of me what’s going on.

       Jack slides his hand over his eyes, leaving nothing but a smile exposed- laughing and crying at the same time. He and Herman seem to keep interrupting each other as they talk. I can’t listen to Jack’s end of the conversation- it’s too much to handle. Turning away to give them privacy, my head spins, and suddenly I end up lying on the bed, caught in a daze. The emotion has finally caught up to me.

       Jack notices that I’ve fallen and comes over, still talking to Herman. “I can’t believe it’s you”- he’s said that several times now. How do they know each other? I climb up onto the bed and wrap my arms around myself, exhausted and shaking. I am unable to do a thing, though I want to cut in on the conversation so badly. Jack touches my shoulder and attempts to hang up, but apparently Herman isn’t done talking yet. The conversation lasts for several more minutes while I concentrate on breathing. Finally it’s over. Jack sets the phone gently in its cradle.

       “Are you in shock, Marieke?” he asks worriedly, turning his attention back to me. “Can you move?” I break through from the haze, enough to nod my head, and sit up heavily, back against the wall. I ask the first question on my mind- “How do you know Herman?”

       Jack watches me with shrewd eyes. “You’re- oh god, this is a stupid story.” He sighs.

     “Tell me,” I insist, stretching my legs out. Now that the shock has passed, I’m overly curious about Jack’s connection with this man I’ve known for years.

       “You’re going to think- hell, who cares what anyone thinks?” he admonishes himself, passing a hand over his face. “Remember how I told you I lived in Rotterdam for a few years?”

       “Yes?”

       “Herman was one of the friends I made there. And let me tell you, he quickly became- more than a friend.” Jack rolls his gaze onto me, forcing me to understand the meaning.

       I’m not quite sure I follow him. “You- you were in love?”

       “Yes. It was utterly stupid of me, but like you say, the heart can’t be controlled.” Jack leans back, breathing slowly with the effort of sharing his secret.

       “But- I thought you liked women. You liked _me_ in the least.”

       Jack gazes at me. “I do, Marieke, just… I don’t only like women, you see.”

       “Ah,” I murmur, flashing backwards to Jack’s dancing in various clubs, the way he’d moved in sync with both genders. I suppose that must have been his Zoo TV confession as well.

         Jack resumes his story. “He didn’t know I liked him, but I didn’t want to say anything. You know how conservative he is.”

     I nod.

       “We were at a bar one night, with some other friends. Things got out of hand. I drank too much that night… and something happened and before I knew it I was being thrown out and Herman was aghast. I’d made a complete fool of myself.”

     “Did you kiss him?” I ask.

       Jack groans. “I can’t remember, it was _that_ kind of drunk. All I know is the next day Herman didn’t want to speak to me- he was absolutely volatile- and I was packing my bags to leave Rotterdam. I’d lost the first love of my life. And now…” He shrugs. “Now we’ve found each other again.”

       For a moment I can’t speak, and suddenly I just laugh and laugh. It’s hilarious that, despite everything, such an unlikely coincidence will waltz into my life and lighten the life of another. In this case, it is Jack, who laughs along with me. I don’t know what he thinks is humorous- probably not what I’m thinking of now.

       “What in the world did you say to him?” I ask.

       “I just wanted to know if he remembered me. I think we made up, but I’m not really sure. Can you- if it doesn’t bother you, can you give me his number? We need to sort out so much…”

       “I’ll tell you later,” I say, my limbs feeling like stone. I don’t want to move as the weight of the story drops on me. There is still one priority I have to deal with, and that’s Lina. “Herman is dating my best friend.”

       “He is?”

       “Yes- er, I’m not sure anymore. They’ve broken up…” Why did Lina break up with Herman? I have to know from her. That means a trip to Rotterdam must be in order.

       Jack stands up. “This is a lot to take in, I’m sure. You need to eat first.”

       “Yes,” I say as my stomach growls. “Should we still try to make it to Edge’s party?”

       “You can have your keys back,” Jack says, handing them to me. “Go out tonight. Get some good sleep too.”

       We embrace each other for the first time.

       “You’ll make it through,” Jack whispers in my ear.

     After he’s gone, I head downstairs and try to forget everything that has just passed.


	32. Me Myself I Got Nothing To Prove

“Might I request something from you?”  
Bono scoots away from me as I sit down next to him. “Good morning yourself.”  
“I need to go to Rotterdam for a day or two, maybe more. Can you lend the Zoo Plane to me? I’ll only need to be dropped off and I’ll call when the visit is up.”  
“This is the third time you’ve asked to leave the tour,” Bono says, drinking his coffee. “Can’t you make your mind up already?”  
“One of my friends is in serious trouble, Bono,” I say. “She needs some support from me.” Not to mention that I need to find out what her trouble is. “Her behavior might lead to destruction.”  
Bono pushes his mug away. “Well, I’m sorry to hear about that, but can’t you stay with us for London at least? You’ve got a job to do. You need to write.”  
I pull back from my breakfast so I can stare into Bono’s fathomless ocean eyes. The gaze does nothing for helping me decide. As carefully as I can, I answer, “When’s the performance in London?”  
“We’re booked for the eleventh,” Bono says, his tone casual and yet exuding a certain dominance.  
“Then I don’t need to go with you yet. I have enough time to make a trip to Rotterdam and back . I’ll be ready for the show.”  
“The tour plane might not agree to that,” Bono says slowly.  
“I’ll get there, I promise. I’m already packed. Please, Bono, let me go.”  
Bono leans back over his nonexistent drink. “I’m technically not the one to make decisions.”  
“You’re right. I can control myself.”  
What’s gotten into her? Ever since Marieke left Holland, she’s been more mature and less needy of anyone. Bono realizes she is self-sufficient and can make the trip if she wants. He has no reason in stopping her. But he wants her to stay, for whatever reason.  
“Go talk to the pilot and see if he can make the trip.” Bono stares back at Marieke, winking. “Have fun, love.”  
I leave the table with childish butterflies in my stomach from the wink, but focused on the task laid before me. I call Lina to let her know I’m coming, before breakfast is over.  
“Hello, it’s me. I know you don’t want to see me or hear me talk to you, but we need to do just that. I know something is seriously wrong, and I want to help you. Leave a message. My number is…”  
Now alone downstairs, Bono creeps over to Edge’s table, where he spies several friends, including Morleigh. Bono greets everyone and sits next to the dancer, obscuring the path of her eye from Edge.  
“Are you ready for London?” Bono asks the general table, blinking at Morleigh. She stares at her breakfast. A few people respond positively.  
“I can’t wait to get in the home stretch,” Edge says, his eyes on Bono’s eyes on Morleigh.  
“Yeah… in a few days we’ll be in Dublin city!” Bono cheers. He directs his words towards the woman at his side. “Then… well, then it’s down under for us, and the tour’s wrapped up for good.”  
“It’s a bit worrying, really,” Morleigh says, still watching her plate. She doesn’t respond when Bono “accidentally” brushes her skin as he scratches his ear.  
“What’s the worry, love?” Bono asks, turning the smolder on. She’ll have to make eye contact now. Edge hasn’t reacted.  
Morleigh does look up, stares at Bono for a span of a few seconds, and flicks her gaze onto The Edge. “What am I going to do with my time after this?”  
“You could always stick around. Who knows, we might have a place to fit you in on the next tour.” Ever so suavely, Bono presses his leg against hers.  
“Ahem… Bono…” Edge is flagging the singer down. He takes Bono aside. “Why are you flirting with her?”  
“You don’t have a problem with it?” Bono is ready to gauge Edge’s reaction.  
“No, surely not. But it could get over-the-top too quickly.”  
Bono wants to tell Edge to trash the act. “I know what I’m doing. Morleigh is not reacting in any questionable way. Lay off.”  
“It’s a bit sick of you,” Edge protests.  
“What, with me being married and all? Or does it offend you more that I’m making moves on her specifically?”  
Edge knows what Bono is driving at. He’s annoyed past a dangerous point, but is nearly bursting with wanting to explain himself. “I know, you think we’re together.”  
“Are you?”  
Edge exhales. “Not yet. I… I don’t even know if I really love her or not. It’s all so confusing.”  
That line of thinking is all too familiar to Bono, almost unhealthily familiar. “Have you, have you done the deal yet? Have you done it?” Reading Edge’s expression, Bono quickly moves on- “Let’s start with the basics. Have you kissed her?”  
“Only as much as you have,” Edge answers. “I don’t know if she loves me either. It’s so hard, having to fall in love all over again.”  
Bono touches Edge’s shoulder and glances back at the breakfast table. “Morleigh isn’t going anywhere. You have enough time to wait. She’s a great friend.”  
“Must be easy for you to say, Bono, you’ve had your love life cut out for you,” Edge comments. Bono says nothing, remembering Ali and their romance in high school. _She’s the only one I’ll ever love._  
The elevator in the nearby lobby opens its doors, letting out its sole passenger- Marieke. She has tied her short curls into a puff at the back of her head, and even as serious as she looks- probably worried about her friend- she still maintains a calm in her posture and stride that Bono can’t help but admire.  
Edge follows Bono’s gaze. “She’s not… _she’s_ not causing you any trouble with that, I hope?”  
“With what?” Bono inquires, trying to rip his gaze off Marieke as she goes out the door.  
“With your commitments, your life. She’s not interfering with your own ability to fall in love, is she?”  
Bono drops his gaze. He wants to tell Edge what a messed-up place his mind is in with Marieke. He would even go as far as to tell him about his onstage longing for her. But is this a safe place to say it? The room is full of too many people who could overhear and misinterpret Bono’s words. Who knows how far the rumor that would spring from that could spread?  
“Larry can have her,” Bono answers. “I. Don’t. Love. Her.”  
Edge feels that Bono is just as confused on Marieke as he is on Morleigh. His eyes narrow. He knows that Bono loves Ali, and nothing could be allowed to come between them. “Watch it.”  
As it turns out, the pilot I speak to claims he is not going to take me to Rotterdam. He gives me several fine reasons that do nothing to lift my soul, only burden it with anger. What if I arrive in Rotterdam at a time too late? My worry is frantically trying to spill over as I climb on the bus, but I keep my mouth shut.  
We drive from Glasgow to London- a long trip. Eric sits with me on the bus. Jack is perceptibly happier than any other time I’ve seen him. This finding of Herman could be a beautiful start of a new chapter in Jack’s life- maybe he’ll feel more comfortable expressing his sexuality and face whatever his troubles are. Eric is as blissfully unaware as ever and overstays his welcome. I shove him off onto the next bus seat, trying to fall asleep. When I next open my eyes, maybe the world will be a better place and my anger will slack off.  
 _“Marieke? Marieke, are you there? Please pick up, Marieke, you said you would speak to me… God, I miss you. Please answer the phone.”_ The message is observed by a lone cleaning man in the hotel room, who erases the answering machine for the next guest.  
***  
I sleep through my first day in London, thankful that I’ve eaten dinner on the bus. The next morning, August 10th, is one day before the first U2 concert in this city. I see now that maybe I couldn’t have flown to Rotterdam and been back in time for the show, but it’s not like Bono needs me that badly to write the MacPhisto script. As an act of defiance, I think nothing of writing today, instead hanging around Wembley Stadium to practice the bass with Stuart.  
By now I can play three U2 basslines completely- With or Without You, New Year’s Day, and Where The Streets Have No Name. A few- Zoo Station, Bad, and Ultraviolet- I have in pieces, and the rest I’m still in the process of learning. Of course learning to play the bass guitar makes me want to learn every U2 song, but Stuart is sticking to the standard Zoo TV set. He calls me Adam’s second replacement, and declares, “I’m the expert, but if Adam and I both died the task would be all up to you.” I tell him not to speak so morbidly.  
Today I work backstage on a soft version of Bad, cursing often when I screw up. The song reminds me of Lina. I wonder- how often has she been listening to U2 at home? Is the music therapeutic for her, or does it remind her of me and bug her out of her mind? I can see Lina going with either option. Why didn’t that pilot take me home?  
I cradle the bass carefully and manage to make my way entirely through Bad for the first time. The victory is oddly sweet. My hands begin to move liquidly across the instrument, plucking out New Year’s Day by heart. I barely need to concentrate on my hands anymore, and start to sing unthinkingly.  
“All is quiet on New Year’s Day…” My voice is too deep to come clearly, scratching the higher note on “quiet.” Maybe I’m a baritone. “A world in white gets underway…”  
Bono is walking backstage, whistling a few bars of One to himself. He sees Marieke and the songs collide.  
“I want to be with you, be with you-“ I cut off as Bono sings along, and stop playing. “That was frightening.”  
“Poor little girl, did I sneak in on you when you weren’t ready?” Bono strokes the side of my bass. “Pretty instrument, this.”  
“It is pretty,” I agree. “I still can’t sing with it.”  
Bono scrutinizes me, his eyes thoughtful and clear. “Your voice isn’t quite good for U2 songs, but it might give Tracy Chapman some justice.”  
“Who’s Tracy Chapman?” Bono guffaws. “I thought you’d say that. She’s an American artist, and her voice isn’t so different from yours- pretty deep.” _And yours is off-key and a bit nasally, but no reason to go there._ “If you want to be a showgirl, you could always play her music.”  
I cross my arms. “Give me an example.”  
Without any more prompting, Bono sings- “You gotta fast car, I want a ticket to anywhere, maybe we- what are you looking at me like that for?- make a deal, maybe together we can get some-“  
“I’ve _never_ heard you sing like that,” I laugh. “Never.”  
Bono screws up his face. “It’s a woman’s part- I didn’t think I could manage.”  
“You managed well enough,” I say, sliding my eyes downward. “What was that song you just sang?”  
Bono thinks for a second. He could teach Marieke the song, or he could go back to planning for tomorrow. The band is set to debut a new song from Zooropa, and Bono needs to help out in a big way. All this, and there’s still a phone call to rehearse. Marieke needs to write it first, though…  
“Tell you what, I’ll teach you the song, but only if you agree to perform it onstage tomorrow night.” He knows Marieke will back down. There’s no logical way to fit her into the set.  
I rub the bass over and over, unsure. On the one hand, I can’t waste time in the band’s set or the opening act by singing a song I’ve only learned in one day- and accompanying myself on the bass guitar? That will look odd.  
On the other hand, it sure is tempting for Bono to teach me a song I can actually sing. And- okay, I don’t want to admit it, but being onstage really isn’t all that bad. I remember my dance onstage in Turin, and how much I’d loved that.  
“How about I perform it tonight?” I ask. “I could have my own little set to give the fans something to talk about before your concert.”  
Bono hadn’t expected that response from Marieke, and is surprised. She really wants to perform, he realizes. She wants her lessons on the bass to add up to _something._  
“I’ll teach you the song after we finish rehearsing,” Bono tells Marieke. He grasps her hand. “We’re debuting Babyface tomorrow night- that will be a bit of a struggle.”  
“I love Babyface!” I declare.  
“Right, and you wouldn’t want the performance to be spoiled, now would you? Run along. I’ll be back to catch you. Oh, and how’s that phone call going?”  
He’s touched the very thing I wish not to speak of. “I don’t want to write it today. I’m taking a break.”  
“Not too long a break,” Bono jokes, secretly worried.  
“I’ll have one ready by tomorrow.”  
I watch the soundchecks of Babyface. It’s fascinating to see the band work out songs. Eric is in the stadium, so we listen together. I pluck a few strings on the bass. Morleigh walks past us for a second, sending me a smile. Finally the rehearsals are over.  
“I’ll take this time to teach you Fast Car,” Bono says, swinging his way off the stage.  
He is an excellent teacher. The words are hard to remember, especially with so many different verses, but I’ve memorized the entirety of Numb- I should speak for myself! I play a bassline that fits the song, not sure if it’ll fit into the piece. Bono tells me it’s a purely acoustic song, which leaves me unclear on that part.   
And damn it, he’s right about my singing range. Fast Car is a perfect song for me. I ask Bono if he knows what vocal part I would be. He suggests alto. I shake my head, guessing at least contralto. Bono claims to have no experience on that part.  
“I’m betting,” Eric says as we walk away from the stadium, “that you’re going to balk onstage.”  
“Hm?”  
“You’re not going to do this, right? I’m sure Bono thinks it was a joke. You don’t have to follow through to please him.”  
“I’m betting,” I says smoothly, “that he is not joking, and I’ll hold my ground when I perform.” Hell, there won’t even be a live audience of over a hundred…  
“I’m betting you won’t even perform, or they won’t let you.”  
I face him. “You’re on.”  
When night swoops in on a black wing, I walk down to the stadium, the breeze playing with my hair. I don’t know where Bono is, but if he doesn’t arrive I’ll perform anyway just to show Eric what for.  
I climb onstage and request a bass for myself. Eric is instructed by me to stay in the audience pit. Someone asks me what I’m doing here, and I answer that I have a bet and I’m keeping my half of it. Eric is not impressed. This isn’t the full story. Now that I’m onstage, he wants to see if I can pull it off.  
Just as Stuart gives me a bass- “Don’t plug it in unless you have to”- I spy a figure moving about in blackness, out at the edge of the stadium in the seats. I recognize the shape of his body as being Bono. Great, he’s testing the microphone’s sound while also listening to me. Knowing that he’s here makes this performance worthwhile.  
Tucking a loose curl behind my ear, I turn my head to the microphone. My hands strum the bass, using its limited range to strengthen my voice.  
“You gotta fast car… I want a ticket to anywhere. Maybe we make a deal… maybe together we can get somewhere. Anyplace is better. Starting from zero, got nothing to lose… maybe we’ll make something. Me, myself, I got nothing to prove.”  
My voice is amplified and booms throughout the stadium, startling me at first. But my hands on the bass, plucking out practicality, steady my voice and calm me to sing the next verses.  
“You gotta fast car, I gotta plan to get us out of here. I been working at the convenience store… managed to save just a little bit of money. We won’t have to drive too far, just across the border and into the city. You and I can both get jobs and finally see what it means to be living!”  
I see the entire story fold out in my head. My voice soars, calling for the man I love to take me away in no more than a whisper.  
“See, my old man’s got a problem… he lives with the bottle, that’s the way it is. He says his body’s too old for working- his body’s too young to looking like his! My momma went off and left him; wanted more from life than he could give. I said, somebody’s got to take care of him. So I quit school and that’s what I did…”  
Take a look at me now, Eric. “You gotta fast car, but is it fast enough so we can fly away? We gotta make a decision- leave tonight or live and die this way.” I would be holding my hand over my heart if it wasn’t on the bass guitar. Time for the real test- the higher notes. Hopefully my range will support it.  
“Say, remember when we were driving, driving in your car? Speed so fast I felt like I was drunk… city lights laid out before us and your arm felt nice wrapped round my shoulder, and I-“ My voice scratches a bit in my throat. “Had a feeling that I belonged… I had a feeling I could be someone. Be someone. Be someone…”  
As I start the next verse, disaster strikes. While lost in the song, my hand slips a bit and, for no reason I can explain, the string my fingers are resting on snaps. I gasp, then sidestep, trying to continue the improvised bassline with the loss of one string. It’s impossible now, so I give up and clutch both hands around the microphone, singing a cappella.  
“You gotta fast car, and we go driving to entertain ourselves. You still ain’t got a job, and I work in the market as a checkout girl. I know things will get better… you’ll find work and I’ll get promoted. And we’ll move out of the shelter- buy a bigger house and live in the suburbs.”  
God, this song is long. I count out the time in my head, and open my mouth to sing the chorus again. As it ends, I suddenly realize that I have no idea what the next line is. Yeah, Bono’s a good teacher indeed.  
“You gotta…. Fast car, is it fast enough so you can fly away? You gotta make a decision- leave tonight or live and die this way.” I slowly crank my eyes open to see how the song was received.  
All the crewmen who are watching burst into applause. Eric claps with a stunned look on his face. The figure in blackness, Bono, runs down from the seats to congratulate me.  
His first words are, “Well, the microphones seem to work okay…”  
I roll my eyes. “Really?”  
His arms envelope me. “It was beautiful, Marieke. Beautiful.” I wonder what his reaction was, all the way out in the stadium seats. Did I sound any different with the distance?  
“Nice going with the string mishap,” Bono notes, pulling back.   
“I couldn’t remember all the words.”  
“Just thank God you weren’t performing for millions, eh?” My thoughts exactly!  
I face a subdued Eric. “Do I get any money?”  
“Yeah, right,” he snickers.  
That’s fine with me. At least now I know that I can sing, and if all else fails I can always stand in for a bassist in a band.  
***  
That following day I meet Bono in a spare stretch of time. We go for coffee, although the beverage is not my favorite. I pull out some paper and a pencil and ask the first question- “Who are we calling?” It’s time to get cracking. Maybe I can make the fight out to Rotterdam once we leave London.  
Bono scratches his chin. “I’ve got a few people in mind… but the one that won’t go away, the one that just won’t leave my brain, is Salman Rushdie.” He produces a book from under the table, tapping the title in my face. _The Satanic Verses,_ by Salman Rushdie.  
“I’ve heard of that book,” I say. “Is it good?”  
“Absolutely,” Bono tells me. “He lives here in Britain, you know… he’s in hiding here with government protection. It would be _splendid_ calling him!”  
“Is the phone number easy to obtain?” I ask. “I mean, if he’s in hiding, you won’t get the number through persuasion.”  
Bono flashes me his winning smile. “Considering who I am, Angel, do you think they wouldn’t give me that number?”   
Even though smiles do say a thousand words, I am not completely convinced.  
“Just tell me for real- how _do_ you get those numbers?”  
“It’s not that difficult,” Bono says, beating around the bush.  
“Cut it out and tell me.”  
“Bossy, bossy,” Bono admonishes me, flicking one of my curls. “It’s a simple combination, Angel. All you have to do is know the right people, use the magic word, and _ask.”_  
I can’t help snorting with suppressed laughter. “All right, all right. Now where were we- Salman Rushdie?”  
“Yes. You do the writing and I’ll get the number. Don’t worry. This will work out fine!” Bono turns around in his seat and scans the area behind him, laughing. At least he’s in good spirits. Unfortunately, I have to do all the work…  
“Just give me more information on him and I’ll make use of it.”  
“Here, you can have the book too.” He hands it over. I make note of it and write.  
After a bit, I glance up from my reading and revision to find that Bono is no longer with me. Maybe he’s just in the bathroom, but it sure feels like a rude abandonment. I gaze at the book in my hands, open it, and continue reading. How one person can get a death sentence for spinning a great yarn, I’ll never know. Isn’t this the 20th century?  
“Interesting read?” someone’s voice booms in my ear.  
“Where did you go?” I ask Bono.  
“Nowhere far. Are you ready for the speech yet?”  
I give it to him. “Just read.”  
***  
“She’s gonna dream of the world she wants to live in… she’s gonna dream out loud.” Bono smiles as the fans cheer, ending the song on its proper positive note.  
Zooropa is a hard song to master live. Though the audience responds well to it, there’s still a material missing in the ingredients- maybe it’s the skip from Babble straight into Zooropa, or maybe it’s the lack of instruments to reproduce the multilayered sound achieved in the studio. Bono would gladly start the song in its normal place if he didn’t know the fans would become bored- the nonsense words, the discordant piano, and Bono’s undersinging of “Zooropa…” It’s not enough to hold a person’s attention, even if they do know and love the song. Bono suspects the band is going to retire the song pretty soon.  
Babyface is pulled off well. The only problem is Bono’s singing. The song is in a higher range than usual, and Bono has to strain to hit the notes. He remembers the Joshua Tree Tour and how Red Hill Mining Town had died a slow death because of his inability to sing it. Goodbye, Babyface.  
I attend to MacPhisto as he gets ready for showtime. Once Bono’s identity is taken, the Devil replacement is impossible to settle down. He lurches around backstage, thrilled to be in London again. I wonder how MacPhisto’s accent compares to the true British people in the audience, and hope he’s in his element. U2 performs Desire, and MacPhisto is on fire.  
“Zooropa! Zoooorrropa! _Myyy_ Zooropa!”  
Now it’s time for him to make a bit of small talk with the crowd. MacPhisto swaggers up to the microphone, humming “Those were the days, my friend, I thought they’d never end… la la-la laaaa… da daaa, da daaaa, da daaa…”  
He sighs pensively. “It’s not the same, is it? No… Don’t you miss the good old days?” A few fans in the audience shout “No” and I would be right there with them if I could. “The Raj, the Empire!” MacPhisto continues, naming Indian-sounding places. “Don’t you miss the good old days? No talking back from Paddies or Pakis, no!” The crowd cheers. I mentally thank them for liking what I’ve written.   
_And thank you, Bono, for giving me the idea._ The speech would be much poorer if it weren’t for him.  
“What’s all the fuss…” MacPhisto says in a dismal tone. I focus all sights on the stage and try to forget everything but how much I love him.  
“Salman Rushdie, he can’t be English, can he? Shall I give him a telephone call?” The introduction of MacPhisto’s goal could have been a bit stronger… I add that to my short list of woes about this script. However, the crowd cheers- “Yeah!”  
On cue, MacPhisto moves backwards to take up the phone. “He’s been taking my name in vain,” he tells the audience, using my kind of humor. “Yes, all that bullshit about freedom of speech… ha-ha. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.” He shakes his head, unable to express how silly the whole affair is. “I sent him into this- I sent him into exile…” MacPhisto perches his fingers over the buttons. “But I do have his number… let me see.” He dials, murmuring something so quietly that my ears can barely pick it up- “Although I’m not sure this is gonna work…”  
What phone number has he got, I wonder? Maybe he won’t contact anyone, although I have written a few words as a conversation starter in case he does reach Salman. That alternative is slim, however. No worries- it wouldn’t be the first time we haven’t gotten a good connection.  
“Mm. Ta da, da-da daaa…” MacPhisto sings, half to calm himself and half to calm the crowd.  
“Hello?” a man answers on the other line after a few seconds.  
“Hello, could I speak to Salman Rushdie? The name’s MacPhisto,” MacPhisto says with a wearied air.  
“Yeah,” the man responds slowly, “this is Salman Rushdie speaking.”  
Hm! So we won’t need to improvise tonight after all! Frankly I’m shocked we’ve contacted him, and I pray my words won’t sound inadequate. MacPhisto can always change them as he goes along, of course.  
“Ah!” MacPhisto cheers his success. “Salman Rushdie, it’s been a long time. Tell me, how miserable are you these days?”  
“Actually, I’m very well,” Salman responds, sounding like it. “And in fact I’m quite happy too, thank you very much.”  
“Do you get… out and about these days?” MacPhisto questions, giggling under his breath like the Devil he is. The crowd also laughs, taking advantage.  
“Oh yes, now and again,” Salman says off-handedly. “I’ve got to be careful, of course- I’ve got even more trouble with the critics than you do!” Taking into account who he’s _really_ speaking to, I wholeheartedly approve of this joke, and laugh. MacPhisto seems to hear my cackling backstage through the crowd noise, and looks put out.  
“Mm… maybe not,” he grunts. “Well, let me see, I don’t want to make you too jealous, because we’re having an absolutely fabulous evening here at Wembley Stadium!” I cover my ears, anticipating the humongous cheer rising up from the depths of the U2 fans.  
Salman apparently isn’t jealous at all. “Yes, I know that, because I’m here too!” My entire body focuses on two words- _What the?_ He… he can’t be telling the truth.  
MacPhisto turns towards the audience, raising his eyebrows to the sky. “I beg your pardon?”  
“I’m much closer to you than you could ever imagine,” Salman brags. “In fact I can see you now! You’re wearing a ridiculous gold suit and you’re standing in front of 50,000 of the loudest people I’ve ever heard in my life!”  
The loud people take that as another opportunity to blast our eardrums, while MacPhisto gazes suspiciously into the audience, searching.  
“Ah… I suppose that’s you with the blond wig over there, is it, Salman?” MacPhisto finally decides. His voice is a bit dejected. “Well, I don’t know what to say to you, I’m so- are you not afraid? Come out if you’re not afraid,” he taunts the author. “Salman Rushdie, I don’t believe you’re here. No chance… Salman Rushdie, no chance…” The quiet challenge lies onstage- an offering for Salman to surrender himself to the crowd. All eyes- at least mine and Eric’s- are on the stage, watching closely to see if he follows through.  
And lo and behold, he does. At first my heart nearly stops, and then I’m pumping my hands in the air, cheering with the audience as Salman walks onstage, casually strolling up from the underground without even a backward glance. He’s smiling nervously- an honor and a danger, to be on the Zoo stage at this time.  
My focus instantly turns to MacPhisto and the rest of his band. Adam, Larry, and Edge wear matching stunned expressions. MacPhisto is completely taken aback, and murmurs dazedly “Oh my God.” This is the only time I’ve heard him swear like that, and suppose it’s Bono breaking through beneath.  
“I… oh my God,” he breathes as Salman finishes his walk to end up at MacPhisto’s side. “I think you might need these, Salman!” And he sweeps the red horns off his head and offers them to Salman with a flourish.  
The author laughs. “I’m not afraid…”  
“Of real devils?” MacPhisto asks in a low voice, stepping back.  
“…and I’m not afraid of YOU!” Salman finishes, but he’s smiling. The crowd whistles, and MacPhisto makes a surprising gesture. He bends on one knee and kisses Salman’s hand before rising and throwing one arm around his shoulders.  
Salman is laughing again. “Real devils don’t wear horns,” he tells MacPhisto, who is still holding his own horns in his hand. He shrugs and smiles, whispering something in the author’s ear, and declares for the benefit of the crowd, “Salman Rushdie, ladies and gentlemen, I bow to the superior man!” That superior man looks overjoyed, and hugs MacPhisto. In their moment of embrace, MacPhisto tosses the horns backstage, winking at me. I roll my eyes happily at him.  
Amidst the applause of the crowd, Salman backs away. “Thank you, I gotta dash! Must disappear, gotta run!” He waves shyly before departing. I hope for the life of me that he ends up backstage and safe.  
After all this it seems almost rude to continue the show, but U2 do and break into Ultraviolet. MacPhisto sings with a happier passion, reassuring me in the heartbreaking set. He’s got something to look forward to tonight  
I race backstage to catch up with Bono, excited to share my points of interest with him. I’m ready to discuss what happened tonight and go out for a celebration. Strangely, Bono’s door is closed and no one answers when I knock. I pull Edge aside as he walks through the corridor and ask what’s going on.  
Edge laughs, completely relaxed. “Oh, Bono’s in there, all right, but he’s not coming out yet. You can guess who’s the guest of honor.”  
“Salman’s still here?” I ask.  
“It appears so, and Bono isn’t going to let that opportunity pass him by! He’s read all of his books.” The Edge laughs at himself. “All four of them, I mean. Come on out with us- that was an exciting incident, wasn’t it? And you wrote the script by yourself…” We depart arm in arm.  
The next night- our second night in London- is nowhere near as eventful, but there are plenty of great performances all around. Zooropa, for instance, is played well, bringing me to the highest point of happiness. As I head to Bono’s dressing room to congratulate him, a man bumps into me while coming down the opposite way.  
“Oh, sorry! Didn’t see you there, in the dark.” Salman’s chuckle drifts by my ears as he heads towards the dressing rooms, a backstage pass in one hand. I start to smile. Even my worries about Lina don’t seem so bad.


	33. Don't Lose Your Head

The Zoo train marches on, passing Leeds and moving on into Cardiff. U2 performs Babyface at Leeds for their third time, but leave Zooropa out of the setlist. I feel the need to protest this. Bono takes me aside and gives me a few words- “Zooropa is too difficult to manage live. We gave up on it. I’m sorry Marieke… but New Year’s Day is never leaving the set, is that fine with you?” Of course it’s fine with me. By now I can even play the song by myself.

             Bono has Manchester on the mind in Leeds. He tells me all about Sellafield, a nuclear power plant that is destroying the life around it with its dubious means of getting rid of waste. U2 participated in a concert protest last year against Sellafield, and even went further in their efforts by working with Greenpeace on a special mission. In MacPhisto’s speech for Leeds I manage to make a connection to the protest and tonight’s concert- “I should come up here more often, you’re so very kind,” MacPhisto says, swaggering about the stage. “I think the people of the North are so generous. I mean, you’re given the nuclear waste of the world- and you take it! My goodness, you take the nuclear waste of the world. What a generous thing to do.” He proceeds to call England’s Minister for Environment.

       Tonight is Cardiff, and MacPhisto has a new object of attention on his mind. “They’ll all be here to meet me…” he sings softly. “I love that one. How many of you are called Evans here tonight?”

       A good few people call from the audience, letting the presence of Evans be known.

     Mock-disappointed, MacPhisto cries, “And I thought The Edge was such a _special_ name! Can I just introduce you to _my_ guitar player- this is, after all, his home-away-from-home.” The entire crowd claps, and Edge smiles softly.

       “I must say I love to be up here, and Wales is so generous, I just love this place,” MacPhisto announces. We all know he’s just gearing up for the real speech. “I love to go shopping here, actually. I like to shop in Cardiff. I have a friend who likes to come shopping in Cardiff. She actually grew up in a grocer’s, actually, in England, and later when she became the Prime Minister…”

     Suddenly everyone in the stadium knows who MacPhisto is talking about, and I sense a rumble of unease along the crowd, the simultaneous “I knew it” feeling. This doesn’t faze me. We’ve gone through pretty bad crowds before- take Oslo, for example!

     Surprisingly, MacPhisto, normally the most collected man in the room, fumbles a bit with the low roar he can feel. “…She… she got very good at shopping.”

       The fans begin to boo.

     MacPhisto’s mouth forms the shape of an O, his eyebrows pulling up in a _well-I-never_ expression. “This is a friend of mine you’re talking about! She had a wonderful idea, actually- she decided to run the whole kingdom like a shop, and she put it on sale.” The audience laughs.

       “And she sold the railways!” MacPhisto fires, getting into it. “And she sold the coal industry, and she sold water, and she sold… What a great shopper- LADY THATCHER!”

       Instead of the instantaneous applause that MacPhisto expects, he gets a long round of booing.

        “I know you love her,” MacPhisto says dismissively. “Shall I give her a telephone call?” He’s already picking up the phone as the audience shouts their assent.

       “I do miss the old girl, don’t you?” he asks as he dials.

     A woman’s voice drifts from the audience- “Bloody old bitch!”

     MacPhisto handles the phone easily, tells the crowd, “It’s not local.” They laugh again. MacPhisto starts to sing- “Laa la la…”- and drowns out the woman’s voice on the other end as she answers.

     “Good evening!”

     “Hello, is this the House of Commons?” MacPhisto asks, a grin on his face.

     “Yes, speaking.”

       “Hello…” MacPhisto says, eyeing the crowd, and I can swear he looks like he’s flirting with the telephone. “I’d like to speak to Lady Thatcher, please.”

       The woman is stiff. “Well, I am sorry, but the House is in the summer recess at the moment- you’ll have to write in to, uh, Lords or Baronesses at the moment. You have to write to them.”

     As the fans boo and the woman adds, “The House isn’t sitting until October,” MacPhisto runs his fingers through his tousled black hair and laughs. “I, I understand- um, no, you think I’m an ordinary person! I, I actually know her personally.”

       The woman’s voice is scathing. “You know her _personally.”_

“Yes. My name is Mr. MacPhisto,” he says matter-of-factly.

       “Yes?”

     “And… I was just wanting to- I, I wanted to let her know where I was. I’m in a place called Cardiff- I was wondering, has she heard of it?”

       The fans like this very much, and make it near impossible for the woman on the other end of the phone to get herself heard. When the sound dies, she can be heard saying, “But the thing is, you see, you can’t get in contact with her. You have to write a letter to her, here at the House. You can’t contact her during the recess.”

       The audience boos. I glance at MacPhisto with the appropriate expression- _I’ll write that letter to the House, if you wish._ Unfortunately MacPhisto fails to look my way. He’s agreeing with the woman- “I’m sure she’d be very upset. Um, could I leave a message?”

       “Well, I’m afraid the House is in the recess, so you can only post it,” the woman points out huffily.

       “I just wanted to say that…” MacPhisto blinks and breaks into song. “I just called to say I love you… I just called to say how much I care…” All that trouble for the sake of two little lines.

       After the phone call everything proceeds in the same way as usual. MacPhisto sings Ultraviolet, something I can never get tired of. The next performance is With or Without You- like that’s a surprise- and Love Is Blindness slotted next to last. I watch MacPhisto choose a girl from the audience and try not to feel envious. He spins around with her, clinging on tightly. And for the first time in a while, I spot his mouth moving against the woman’s ear, whispering to her- probably she’s a clingy, fondling type. MacPhisto is Bono for a second as he tries to help the woman maintain her dignity.

         It isn’t until Can’t Help Falling In Love has ended and I’m backstage that the truth comes clear. “That was some dance,” Bono states as an aside, his blue eyes daring me to ask more.

       “How so?” I ask, taking his bait.

       “You wouldn’t believe what she was going on about!” he chuckles. “She was some kind of evangelist. I’ve seen the type. All she did was scold me about associating with the Devil. True fan indeed.” Bono rolls his eyes.

        I wince. “Oh, bad choice. What did you tell her?”

       “I had to mention the Screwtape Letters- have you read them?” I nod. “Anything to help her understand. She got it in the end, I think. We’re not trying to promote anything satanic- we haven’t gone that far into rock and roll. We’re not consorting with the Devil- if there is one,” Bono smirks. “Like Salman said, real devils don’t wear horns.”

         “MacPhisto is more of a reimagining,” I suggest. “He’s less like the real devil than a character based on the Devil. Like-“

       “Like a historical fiction novel- a book with both created characters and personages from history who had real lives.” Bono has hit the nail on the head. He continues, “I always knew that there would be fans who take a look at MacPhisto and the Mirrorball Man and jump to the conclusion that U2 has gone to the dark side. That’s a load of bullshit.” I laugh, glancing at once around the room at the faces of Jack, Edge, Bill, Eric, Adam- my comrades in Zoo, who are having their own conversations, letting me and Bono be. I thank them in my heart for that.

       “What say you to going out and having a few drinks?” Me, I’d rather take one, but I’ll agree to anything.

                                                              ***

       _Dear Marieke,_

_I have to be frank in this letter. Your holiday hours have expired. KLM requires your services in Rotterdam. You must quit your job on tour and turn in._

I scan the page, skipping down to the last sentence. My boss is all talk for nothing- she uses too many words to prove her point.

         _Failure to arrive in the allotted time slot will bring consequences._

She’s controlling my life! I never, ever wanted my job to control my life. My eyes cease to see the paper in my hands, instead flashing back to the millions of times I’d taken calls at the airport- a job where the only relief was that it brought enough money to get by. Lina’s own job as a secretary would have provided twice as much. Until the night MacPhisto called me, being the phone girl was a dead end street.

       Without anymore reasoning than that, my mind is made up. I dial my boss’s number, not caring what the time is. She answers in a peaceful tone, and I barge in on it with, “I’m quitting my job.”

       “Who is this?” she asks, and I realize that working at KLM really does mean nothing. My own boss doesn’t recognize my voice.

       “Marieke Lang- I’m quitting. I’m giving up. Go hire someone else.” I’ve never spoken this outright to her, and it feels both glorious and relieving.

       She starts to say something else, but I hang up mid-word. The phone won’t ring again- she doesn’t know my number. The letter was three days old anyway.

                                                       ***

       The next logical step, of course, is to tell everyone about my triumph. I spread the news around the entire entourage as we pack up to leave Cardiff. Soon everyone who works on Zoo TV knows that I’m free before we’ve even gotten on the plane.

        Eric’s reaction is obvious- he joins in on my exaltation. We hug and high-five together, and Eric exclaims, “You’ll never have to leave us!” Well, not true- I still have to go home when the tour ends, but I’ll leave Eric to his delusions.

       Jack is more reserved when he hears of my joy, and is the first to focus on the practical side- “What will you live on when your job here ends?” I shake my head, not ready to look that far into the future. Lina would probably be able to support me- but what if her low productivity that Herman told me about causes her to get fired? I can’t judge well enough because I’m the last one to know what’s going on in Rotterdam.

       Other crew members suggest certain jobs that I can take on with the band when Zoo TV shuts down. I tell them that it all depends on how many speeches Bono is planning to make next tour. Morleigh is laughing at me, saying that they might not have use for a belly dancer on the next tour either. “But none of us know if there’s to be another album- it’ll all go off of there,” she reminds me.

       Bono has mixed reactions on Marieke’s release. He’s happy that she’s free of all unpleasant obligations, but at the same time he’s a bit worried. She could run into debt- the money she receives for each speech isn’t nearly enough to keep her afloat. And there’s a far more pressing problem- what will she do after the tour ends? Will she insist on getting a proper job with the band, one that isn’t just limited to Zoo TV? There’s no telling what she could ask for- and what she might be granted. Bono is counting down the days to the break between tour legs. He can’t wait to get his mind free of Marieke.

       As the band flies back to London for two more tour dates, Bono pushes thoughts of Marieke away. It’s time for yet another issue to be brought to mind. Bono’s anniversary with Ali is coming up, coinciding with the first London show. With hope she’ll be flying out from France to see him and attend the show. Bono is excited to see her.

       The atmosphere is hardly tense inside the Zoo Plane. Those small remarks made to each other are even better than average conversation, Bono decides. He chatters happily, without a care in the world. Bono doesn’t even realize that his ears are pricked for certain names until someone mentions it… _“Marieke.”_

       Bono disengages himself from the current conversation he is holding and jumps into Adam’s- “What was that?”

       Adam shrugs. “I’m just saying that she’s becoming a really great bassist. It’s as if the instrument was made for her.”

       “Stuart has taught her well,” Larry agrees, and Bono notices his eyes sparkling.

       “So when are you gonna make a move?” Adam asks, nudging Larry.

       Larry looks surprised. “What kind of move are you talking about?”

      “The one with Marieke, of course!” Adam laughs.

       Bono doesn’t realize it but he’s straining to follow the exchange, anxiously awaiting Larry’s response. Larry says, “I’m not making any kind of ‘move,‘ Adam. I’m still in a relationship-“

       “Which woman do you want more?” Bono interrupts.

       Larry scratches his head. “Ah, why’d you have to go and ask that? It’s nothing, okay? There will be no ‘moves’ made.” He twitches two fingers on each hand, forming quotation marks. “Nothing will stay nothing.”

       “It better stay that way,” Bono mutters to himself. Once again, strange, choking jealousy rises in him against Larry.

       Edge happens to jump in at that time- “What do you have going on for August 21, Bono?” All attention is turned to the latter man, and Adam murmurs, “Ali!” with a note of rejoice.

       “She’s coming to London, no doubt about that,” Bono answers. “I can’t wait to see her.”

       “Hey, it’s only a matter of days,” Edge points out. He’s pleased that Bono will be spending some time with his wife. Anyone could tell that they need to see each other.

       Bono rubs his hands together, thinking about Ali. He’s heard her voice on the phone many times, and she sounds like she’s doing okay. In fact, if the tour continued forever Ali probably wouldn’t be too affected. Bono feels a twinge of worry that maybe she doesn’t need him around- But no. He’s gotten too many false alarms about that. She must be as excited to see Bono as Bono himself is to see her. August 21st, 1993 will mark the 11th year that the Hewsons have been together. Bono wishes for many more years- he has no idea how long this love could last.

                                           ***

       For me, London does not disappoint. I’m spent after a day of writing the perfect speech for MacPhisto, playing the bass guitar, and helping assemble the stage. Wembley Stadium is all ready for its third U2 show on Zooropa by August 19th. Tomorrow the aforementioned band will take the stage amidst thousands of fans. No different from any other night, but somehow it feels extra-special.

       And on the 20th, Eric and I freak out backstage trying to get everything ready. We bump into each other and other crewman as we prepare to perfection, and smile whenever we pass by. Finally U2 is safely onstage playing Zoo Station, and I grab Eric and we bounce around, reverting to children for a few seconds. This, we can tell, is gonna be good.

       Wembley is the most elegant stadium I have ever seen. Until the two shows a week ago, never did I dream I would be here, when I’ve only seen it before on TV. I welcome it back like an old friend. The whole band is on fire. Bono bounces around the stage with excitement, hanging onto Adam or Edge at times. The guitar heroes jam, Edge slaying every song and Adam providing a consistent heartbeat below the foreground noise. I raise my eyes towards Larry cautiously, and he’s beating away at those drums, face concentrated but arms showing his joy rather than eyes.

       The set quiets down. U2 performs Angel of Harlem and Stay. Now is the time for that gorgeous cover song of Bono and Edge’s- Satellite of Love. Adam and Larry are waved back to the main stage, where I get a clear view of them drinking water and fiddling with their instruments. Bono grips his microphone.

       “This is a Lou Reed song,” he murmurs, and the fans cheer. We are bound to him by the music and our love, and ready for him to lead us on. “He wrote us an arrangement… this is Satellite of Love,” Bono finishes, giving a telling glance towards Edge. His hands slide across the strings of the guitar, beginning the piece. Bono lets his leather Fly jacket fall to the ground and breathes into the mic.

       “The satellite’s gone into the sky,” he hums melodically. “Things like that drive me out of my mind…”

       Bono’s eyes close, and he takes a step forward. Edge hovers at his side, his own view on his guitar. “I watched it for a little while- I love to watch things on TV…” He caresses the higher falsetto notes with a smile, and opens his eyes. “Satellite of love.”

       Being closer to the main stage, my attention has been turned to the screen behind Adam and Larry. It flickers with a gray, fuzzy light. Bono continues his blissful song, lost in the music- “Bom, bom, bom…” The image that the screen is desperately trying to convey finally comes clear. Lou Reed’s face is projected up there, and he sings back to Bono, “Satellite of love…” prompting a cheer from the audience. Bono gazes into the screen, and sings in falsetto again. The two men finish in perfect timing- “Sat-e-llite of love.”

       “Lou Reed,” Bono exclaims, gesturing, and sits down to watch the original artist sing.

       “I’ve been told that you’ve been bold… with Harry, Mark, and John. Monday and Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday with Harry, Mark, and John.” For a moment the screen flickers, snapping me out of my enraptured senses. Lou Reed sings, “The satellite’s gone into the sky…” _Click._ The image is lost to us.

       Bono fortunately takes over in a dreamy tone. “Things like that drive me out of my mind.” He shrugs himself to his feet, staring at the screen as if willing the image to come back. “I watched it for a little while… I love to watch things on Zoo TV.” My heart gives a little flutter, like it always does with Bono’s improved lyrics.

         “Satellite of love,” he sings, and Lou Reed’s face returns for one last moment- “Satellite of love.” The singers seemingly gaze at each other, and end the song in unison. “Sat… e… llite, of love.” Edge finishes up with a lullaby of notes, and the crowd cheers as the screen dims.

       The whole night is gearing up towards the encores, and I can barely believe it‘s time when Pride finishes and Bono changes clothes. MacPhisto storms the stage with his accustomed waves and bows, and I struggle against what I know is right and my longing to join him on the stage. The band runs through a rip-roaring version of Desire, and MacPhisto makes his speech, calling the Archbishop of Canterbury. His expressions are overdone, but I love him all the same. If I were only in the audience tonight… My fingers itch to hold the hand of the Devil, to brush his hair behind his ears. I long for my Devil to touch me, keep me wrapped tight in his arms. By the time Love Is Blindness starts I am so overcome with love that I have to leave before the dance starts. I’m also saving myself from an overabundance of tears, I suppose. Eric seems as if he wants to follow me, but says nothing.

     Later tonight, my mind is turning and I think of Lina. I’m still finding it hard to comprehend that my absence could inspire so much pain in her. What is wrong with her in Holland? I must learn in good time.

       I slide myself into bed and try to picture her face. Past the blond hair, I see nothing. It’s more like hearing a description of a woman and trying to imagine what she’s like instead of recalling memories of the woman herself. I know Lina has green eyes and blond hair, but what else? No description can tell the minute details of a person that only a close friend would know- a seven-year roommate, perhaps.

       And rightly, that would be me. Except it’s not me. I want nothing more than to renew my memory of Lina, blossoming into the real thing. I want nothing more except-

       Except there is something I want more, and he’s lying in a bed a floor above me, hopefully dreaming of the performance he put on tonight and feeling damn proud of it. The man I love, who can so easily become the man I love even more with nothing more than a change of clothes. Both men invade each other’s lives, warring with their conflicting personalities- and charming me even deeper with every move they make.

       There are other reasons here to keep my life on its current path. A ginger with misguided but good intentions drifts off on the same floor as me- a great friend who’s been with me through this whole ride. There’s the serious, dark eyed Scotsman who has been my keeper, ready to steer me in the right direction if I ever travel down a darkened way. The kind American dancer who surrendered her hair curler to me springs to mind as well as the skilled bassist who knows more about the instrument than the band member does.

       Which reminds me of more things I want more than Lina. There’s the band itself- its calm guitarist, rowdy bassist, and enigmatic drummer who wants something of _me._ The tour itself is something to want, with all its flashing screens, and the job- using a writing talent I didn’t know I had to pull out speeches for a charismatic Devil.

       And then there’s the music. My God, that music is good.

       I miss Lina, but everyone I’ve met on tour are enough to make up for her loss. I’m in far too deep, and I know it- I love Bono more than I’ve loved anyone else before. But it’s a matter of the heart- something unpredictable- and I swear that as soon as the tour reaches a break I will go see my best friend.

                                                           ***

       Ali arrives early in the morning of August 21st, and Bono is the first person in the entourage to properly greet her. He feels his heart leap as she walks into the hotel, looking quite demure in her own way, but walking with self-assurance. Only a few steps and Bono has caught Ali in his arms, kissing her with zealousness. He has no care in the world, only thrilled to be next to her at last.

       “Hey- I’ve missed you,” Bono says, stepping back.

       “Same, love,” she tells him, tucking one piece of hair behind her ear. Bono is struck by how casual she looks, as if she could hardly care about her husband standing right in front of her. He knows it’s just a front. A few touches and she’ll melt, just the way he wants her.

       “Did you bring the kids too?” Bono asks as the couple steps back and surveys the lobby. Ali shakes her head- “They’re at home, with your brother’s family. I thought it made more sense for a day trip…” She stops talking as Bono strokes her hand. “Happy 11 years, Alison Stewart,” he chuckles. “This is no day trip. Stay the night.”

       “I could change plans,” she assures him, and they walk out to breakfast.

         My eye is caught across the dining hall, fastening on a woman sitting next to Bono. The fork in my hand rests on my plate, and I drum my fingers against its side, ho-humming in disapproval. So Ali’s flown out here- but why? Is Bono okay?

       Their heads turn in sync, and though I loathe the woman I have to admire the uniformity. Bono’s knee bumps Ali’s, so subtly and yet so intimate. Their hands even brush away black hair at the same time. It’s shocking, really, how the two are like puzzle pieces.

       When Bono’s eyes fall on Ali, a memory pops into his head- _“Are you trying to be like me or is this a rockstar thing?” Ali asks perplexedly as Bono shows off his newly dyed black hair. He still isn’t used to the color, and keeps feeling it gingerly as if to make sure it’s real. “Ah, you know, new album, new tour that might require new look,” Bono sighs. Ali laughs- “You’re a long way from that, Paul.” He loves it when she calls him Paul. She is the only keeper of his real identity._

Bono shakes the memory off and lets his gaze slide over, onto- Marieke. The woman is staring back with unabashed blue eyes, almost with a challenge. He’s seen those eyes many times- bright eyes, closed eyes, eyes framed by lashes, eyes full of tears. The contact breaks with a simple blink, and as Marieke looks down again Bono spots the silver bracelet, flashing in all its familiar glory.

       Anger overwhelms me, and I stand up and walk away. I can’t be in the same room as Ali. Coexistence is impossible.

                                                       ***

       “Doing okay, Marieke?” I nod in response to Eric’s question, and answer, “I’m fine.” He grins and attempts to slip an arm around me, but I shrug it off. “Eric… no. I need to think.” He understands. Eric has been sympathetic to my ordeal, treating me excellently when I really need it. Everywhere I go I see Ali and Bono, always out of the corner of my eye but always THERE, as if they’re trying to prove their love. Everything that I thought I had with Bono has disappeared. He never once looked me in the eye, not even when we wrote the MacPhisto speech.

       At least there is still the promise of my man, MacPhisto. I back into the wall to let him by, and he dashes onstage to sing Desire. My heart eventually lifts, and a breeze tugs at my curls as I watch the band perform.

       “What a guitar player! What a city! What a night, what a show! ZOOROPA! ZOOORROPA!”

       I chant it in time- “MYYY ZOOOOORRROPAAA!”

       And MacPhisto sweeps the headgear from his head. “Off with the horns, on with the show!” He laughs and tosses them to me. I smile and thumb him up. “What an evening. What a theater, Wembley Stadium! All the history of this place. Live Aid. The FA Cup. The 1966 World Cup when England won!”

       Cheers erupt. These were my exact thoughts while reflecting Wembley Stadium. I’m glad the crowd likes it. MacPhisto goes on, “They haven’t been winning much lately, now have they?”

         “Nooo,” sing several dejected fans.

       “What’s happened, this noble country?” MacPhisto asks, beckoning upwards. He loves Britain very much, as well all know. “We lost the Test… almost out of the World Cup… The Smiths have split up… there’s only one man who can save us. Shall I give Graham Taylor a telephone call?”

         Oh dear. I start laughing despite myself, and the audience rumbles, “Yeah!”

       MacPhisto laughs, moving towards the phone- he’s always a step ahead. “Let me see now…”

       He dials the first half of the number, makes an aside (“When you’re famous, people give you their telephone number, it’s true), and dials the rest. MacPhisto shushes the audience and we listen to the phone ring for a bit before abruptly stopping.

         “He… hello?” MacPhisto says, catching himself.

       “No one is available at the present time,” the answering machine responds. “If you would care to leave a message, please leave one after the tone. Thank you.”

       “Hello…?” MacPhisto begins, not ready to get his hopes up. “I’m sorry, there must be some mistake. This is Mr. Mac… Phisto…”

       The tone sounds.

       MacPhisto, as always, has a comeback. “Walk on, with hope in your heart, and you’ll never walk alone…” He points the receiver to the crowd.

       “You’ll neeeeever walk aloooooone!”

       You’ve got to love Britain.

       After the show I enter Bono’s dressing room as usual- the door’s ajar- and find him oddly distracted. “Marieke, can you get out of the way for a minute?” he asks. “I’m taking Ali out tonight- I don’t want to-“

       He doesn’t finish his sentence but I know when I’m not wanted. “Okay, I’ll see you later then. Have fun with Ali!” The words are choking me, but they crawl out sounding sincere. Bono waves goodbye to me. He watches Marieke leave, his mind clouded for a few seconds by her.

       I make it outside, out of the stadium. Fresh air cures my lungs. I start off walking, ready to turn in earlier than I usually do, and someone’s voice catches me by surprise. “Marieke, wait up!” I slow but do not turn around, and Eric keeps pace.

       “Are you going to bed or do we have time to explore London?” he asks me.

       “I’ll leave the exploring to you,” I say. “I’m tired.”

       We keep walking as the cars stream past, buffeting my hair gently. The hotel isn’t even in sight yet before Eric stops me on the sidewalk. He turns my head towards his face with a stroke of the fingers.

       “Stay with me,” he whispers, his green eyes burning.

       I don’t know what to say. Eric’s voice is low and sultry in a way I’ve never heard. He takes my arms and grips me securely, refusing to look away.

       “Marieke…” It takes a long time for him to say it, but eventually the confession is out there. “Marieke, I love you. I have since the day we met.”

       My breath starts up. “I…”

       “And… and I was too afraid to mention it, but after telling it to an audience of thousands I know I can tell it to you now.” An audience of thousands- his Zoo confession must have been about me! “I know you’re devoted to Bono right now, but I’m sure you can get over him. I love you.”

       Finally words come- “Eric, I don’t love you in that way,” I gasp, shocked.

       “But- but you could, couldn’t you?” He still hasn’t released my arms. “We’ve spent so much time together.” Oh God, don’t let this be happening now…

       “My heart belongs to another man, Eric.” Never mind how foolish the infatuation is.

       Eric says not a word, just angles his head. Before I know it he’s kissing me, awkwardly at first but stronger and surer as he continues. I can’t make myself break away, though lord knows I want to. Eric’s movements become more and more passionate, and he kisses more hungrily, a moan rising in his throat. Blood slips from my face, and I try to push him off. Finally Eric needs to breathe, and I tear myself free.

       “Get away!” I cry, wiping my mouth, and Eric comes in for another kiss. I stop him with my fingers, though, and hold my hand against his mouth. He presses his lips fervently to my skin, closing his eyes. I wait until he gets it all out of his system, and remove my fingers.

       “You’re the one who took me home in Rome, aren’t you?”

       “What are you talking about?”

       “You were in my bed. You told me that you loved me.” I cross my arms, more sure of this than anything else I’ve been sure of in my life.

       Eric shrugs, but his eyes convey the truth.

       “You’re _SICK!”_ I turn away, wanting to hit something or someone, but I can’t move much farther from the sidewalk. “Eric- I will never love you! I hate you!”

       “Come back,” he pleads, and the tone of his voice makes me want to throw up.

       “NO!” I turn back to him and run. It’s only a matter of moments before I’ve put him behind me and am heading at top speed in the direction of the hotel. My mind consults itself on what to do next. Should I tell someone that Eric kissed me without consent? No one I can turn to… would even care about this… My feet continue to pound the ground, and I realize that I can’t depend on Bono to help me. After the way he’s behaved with Ali today, and the fact that he wasn’t after all the one in my bed, I know that there’s no way he can possibly love me.

       What should I do? I could go to the club and catch up with everyone and drink a load of alcohol to forget what’s just happened- but no! Alcohol will make me sensible. I need to stay on this feeling of out of control. Split decisions will take me where I need to go.

       The hotel is in view. I need to find someone, anyone... My breath comes raspingly, but I don’t slow my pace as I enter the hotel. Inside the elevator I don’t even sag against its walls, instead standing hyper-alert and trying to stay that way. When I get to the right floor, I sprint out and search for a room. Maybe- my desperate mind is made up, maybe if I wait for Bono he’ll come back to his hotel room and- and seeing that I’m so needy of him, he _will_ take me in, despite what he thinks of me.

       But- no, tonight is the anniversary of his marriage to his wife, as I constantly need to remind myself. Bono will have better things to do than comfort a distraught woman. I’m not going to catch him alone in the hotel.

       So I turn and run down the hall to another room, not caring who‘s in it.

     Larry has turned in early from the club, preferring to stay by himself than hang with his friends. He holds a book in his hands, ready to read until lights out. Adam had teased him for leaving- “What, can’t handle the fun?”- but Larry only replied that he was tired. That is part of the truth. He’s sick of watching Bono and Ali interact, and didn’t want to be around for much, much later activity.

       Larry is about to hop into bed when he hears a knock at the door. He cocks his head and listens again, and the knock comes again- less prim and more like someone is slamming his or her palms against the wood. Who could it be? Larry sets his book down and goes to answer the door.

       And standing there, right in front of him, is none other than Marieke. She looks chased, hunted, shell-shocked- and ravenously hungry. Her eyes stare at Larry as if he’s a piece of meat and she can’t wait to tear into him. Even at a worse time, she looks gorgeous.

       “Marieke, what are-“

     She leaps on him, closing the door with her foot. Her lips are on his, kissing with a fervor. Larry isn’t just shocked, he’s- God damn him!- pleased. He wants Marieke to keep kissing him until the world ends. She’s very good at it.

     “Make it go away,” Marieke hisses in Larry’s ear. He staggers backwards and switches off the lights. Is that what she meant? No, she’s whispering more words- “Make me forget this night. Larry, please- do something for me…”

     Larry replaces the word “for” with “to” and likes that prospect more than he should. All thoughts of Ann slip from his mind. Suddenly the two are on the floor- how did that happen?- and Marieke rips Larry’s shirt off. His breathing nearly stops, and Marieke’s lips are over his mouth again, doing absolutely nothing to help him.


	34. Unhappy

The surface beneath my flat body is cold, hard, and very uncomfortable. I open my eyes and immediately discover that all is not well. The ceiling over my head is distinctly different from the one in my own hotel room- and much higher up... I turn to the side, realizing that I’m not wearing any clothes, and come face to face with a large bed. I’m on the floor! The bed isn’t mine either- the sheets are stripped off. I glance down, finding one of the sheets wrapped around me.  
How- what- who was I with last night?!  
And it flashes back as vividly as any memory- Eric kissing me out on the street, me running away, Larry giving me solace and a lot, lot more…  
Speaking of which, where is Larry? Last night when we’d done it on the floor he seemed to have no intentions of ever running away- in fact I know he got more out of the experience than I did. As I’m wondering, the bathroom door opens, and Larry walks out in jeans and a tank top, seemingly oblivious to the woman at his feet.  
“Larry?” I gasp, and my words scrape the air. He stops, hovering several inches away from me.  
“Marieke- how are you?” His words are uncertain, sounding just like someone who’s made love to a woman he knows he shouldn’t have touched and now has no clue what to do with her. And that quite accurately fits our situation.  
“How am I? Larry, I’m- I’m messed up. Completely messed up.” Tears begin gathering in my eyes. I shouldn’t have gone and done that with him… I should have waited for someone who meant more to me before wasting my first time on Larry. I had no excuse- if I had waited a few more moments I know I could have talked it out with Eric instead of trying to distract myself from whatever problem I had.  
Larry, seeing what’s bound to be an awful expression on my face, hastily tries to speak- “Can I do anything to help you?”  
       “I don’t know,” I say, looking away from him and trying to stop the tears that are rolling down my face. “Dammit. I’ve never done this before…”  
       “That’s what you said last night,” he reminds me.  
       I blink, staring violently into his eyes- blue eyes, exactly like Bono‘s... “Larry, I’m so sorry. I- I hate how I behaved, last night. That was just wrong for you.”   
       “Self-hatred is ill-becoming,” Larry says. He crouches down, leaning into my face. “You don‘t really love me, do you?”  
       There’s no question about this. Even after what we shared last night, my feelings are ambivalent. “No. I’m sorry, I know you do…”  
       “It was a crush,” Larry states. He’s never done the real deal with someone he didn’t love, but then again he hadn’t known Marieke wasn’t a person he loves. “That’s all it was. I blew it to extreme over-proportions. I should be the one apologizing to you.”  
       So Larry doesn’t truly love me. Thank God. But now what are we going to do?  
       “You’ve just cheated on your girlfriend.”  
       “I know,” he says seriously, instead of shrugging and saying, “It’s only rock and roll” the way I can easily imagine Bono doing. Those men are so different from each other, in more ways than one.  
       “How is she going to feel? You won‘t tell her about this?” Suddenly I realize I’m in over my head. Larry has ties to more people than I do… he’s already in love with another woman. I’ve just waltzed in and fucked up their whole balance.  
       Larry sighs. “Do you really think I would? Neither of us should breathe a word of this to anyone. We were never together last night. Understand?”  
“I understand,” I say. “But what if someone sees me in-”  
“It’s too early for people to be up,” Larry answers. “Get dressed and go. You need to leave right now.”  
I stand up and waver on my feet, searching for my clothes. Larry sucks in a breath, not meeting my eyes. “They’re over there, Marieke.”  
I find my clothes and dress hurriedly. “Goodbye Larry.”  
“Goodbye Marieke. Please- for the love of God, please don’t do this again, okay?” His voice is shaken as he runs a hand nervously through his blond hair. I work at a smile and kiss his cheek, unafraid of coming close. He doesn’t smile back, but watches me as I stride down the hall, feeling strangely buoyant.  
Once I’m a good ways down the corridor, the act is dumped and I skid across the floor to the elevator, turning my head around to make sure no one is exiting their rooms. The air is silent, so I jump into the elevator and make it back to my room safely. Only Larry and I will ever know how my night ended.  
***  
Bono awakens with his arms wrapped around a woman. For a split second he nearly shoves away from her, but calms down as Ali’s brown eyes stare into his with an interesting perplexity. She’s been awake longer than Bono has, and strokes his hair.  
“Morning, love,” Bono murmurs, pulling the sheets higher up around him and his wife.  
“Good morning, sleepyhead.” She smiles at him, and shakes her head. “Last night was wild.”  
“Which bit- the partying or the sex?” Bono has to ask.  
“Both.” Ali laughs ruefully. “Still, it’s great to reconnect.” She shares a kiss.  
Bono pulls away, sighing, “Don’t tempt me.” Ali wraps the sheet tightly around herself- leaving Bono bare on the bed in the process- and opens the curtains of the window by the couple’s bedside. Sunlight dances through the air.  
“You’ll have to leave soon,” Bono says, jumping up in search of a new outfit. “Good thing you didn’t rent a hotel room. We’re hitting Cork later today.”  
“I could stay with you,” Ali says, turning away from the window. “And yes, staying in your room saves both money and embarrassment.”  
Bono catches Ali’s slender, naked body and wraps his arms around it. “What have you to be embarrassed about? We’re married.” He effectively pulls her off the bed; Ali slides the curtains back again as the sheet drops to the floor.  
“Surely the talk would affect you?” Ali squeezes Bono playfully. “Leaving your room with the same clothes.”  
“S’okay. Like I said, we’re married.” Bono kisses Ali again. She sighs against his mouth and surrenders. The pair intensify their contact, kissing more and more deeply until Bono breaks away for air. “Jeez, Ali, I just got dressed, do you mean to say that effort was all for nothing?”  
“You started it,” she says jokingly, rubbing his shoulders.  
Bono looks away. “Well, I suppose we could always…”  
“I can’t,” Ali states, looking at her feet. “I have to leave; I’m already anxious about the girls. Besides, you don’t really want me to be in a haze all day, thinking about you.”  
“Alright,” Bono relents, letting go of his wife. “You do what you have to do.” He watches Ali get dressed, thinking that he has never seen a more beautiful woman in his whole life.  
***  
A few strokes to my hair and a face wash is all it takes for me to recover from my secret night. There seems to be no other outward damage to my body besides a few tangles- Larry was a very good boy last night. The complete damage is inside my head. I can’t get over the fact- we had sex and it didn’t mean anything. That was my first time, and it meant nothing.  
It hadn’t even been all that great, really. Sure, the physical, new sensation had stunned me- the schoolgirl rumors in years gone by hadn’t prepared me for _anything._ But how could I have enjoyed it properly when somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I’d have someone to answer to in the morning?  
Not that Larry was too hard on me. Beneath the worried façade he seemed to really enjoy the night we shared, which when thought about too hard gives me major creeps. I wonder how I can ever look at him again, knowing that there’s a piece of history we’ve shared in an intimate, irreplacable way. And how will this affect my love for Bono? I can’t pursue him anymore after sleeping with one of his best friends.  
But why the hell would he care? He has never loved me. His heart has always belonged to Ali, and I’m a foolish woman for believing otherwise.  
As we board the plane that will take us to Cork, Ireland, I am pleased to note that said Ali has left. However, a worse thought overtakes me- where is Eric? I’ve nearly forgotten about his role in last night- such a simple act of a kiss doesn’t seem as scandalous now.  
Eric enters the plane and, instead of taking a seat next to me, plops down at the very front. I wait for him to acknowledge my presence, maybe give a sign that he’s sorry for what happened last night, but he doesn’t even glance my way. I’m a nervous wreck by the time the plane lifts into the air, wondering when he’ll drop the bombshell.  
I don’t see much of Cork as we speed through streets, heading to the hotel. I’m inside my own head, driving out the facts- Eric declared he was in love with me last night. Eric kissed me. I was afraid of him and ran away. I needed someone and went a bit crazy. I went to Larry’s room. Larry and I had sex. What a mess, what a fucking mess.  
When we finally arrive at the hotel, Eric breezes past me without anything but a blink. It appears our friendship have been rent from my turning him down. I never wanted this.  
After receiving my room keys, my agitation catches the attention of Jack, who pulls me aside carefully. “Marieke- I’m sorry to ask this, but are you okay?”  
All at once the tumbling emotions inside me have to go somewhere. My composed mask of a face collapses. “No,” I whisper, feeling the ground slide away beneath my feet. Jack has to catch me by the elbow and haul me into the elevator, which is the only place we can have privacy. Jack punches in his floor number and wraps one arm around my shoulders, giving me the comfort he can. I focus on breathing normally, but as soon as we’re on Jack’s floor I give up attempts at anything normal and cling to his body, craving attention. Jack leads me into his room.  
       Inside, it strikes me at how kind Jack is- he barely pays attention to his luggage or making himself at home, instead focusing all on me. I cover my face with my hands, sitting on the edge of the bed, and Jack rubs my back. “It’s okay, Marieke, you’re going to feel better soon.” How can I tell him I won’t feel better ever again?  
       The sobs are something I can’t hold back. Jack stays by my side, comforting me with words and touch. When I’m a bit more in control- my breathing is ragged, but the tears have ended- Jack pats my shoulder and stands up. He brings me a cool washcloth from the bathroom and sits down beside me again, asking, “What happened to you, Marieke?”  
       “Many, many things,” I sigh, scrubbing my face. “I… made love with someone for the first time last night.”  
       I can’t see Jack’s expression, but the extreme pause he puts between words speaks for itself.      “Okay,” he says finally. “Who was it?”  
       I know he’s going to pause for an even longer time when I tell him. “Larry.”  
       The silence is deafening.  
       “Marieke…”  
       “It was a stupid mistake,” I sigh, covering my face with the washcloth. “I shouldn’t have done that. I was just messed up because Eric told me he loved me…”  
       “Anyone could have told you that,” Jack says. He moves off the bed and starts searching for something in his suitcase. “You really didn’t notice his advances on you?“  
       “I did, I did,“ I protest. “Just… I thought I could handle it. But he kissed me, out on the street in London, without my permission… I couldn’t stand it! I had to find someone else.“  
       Jack continues his rummage. I wonder if he can empathize with me in any way, if he’s ever gone through anything as insane as I’m going through now. Probably not… Jack’s next question puts me on slight guard. “Did you like doing it with Larry?”  
       “Not as much as I’ve always dreamed,” I say. “Sex is good, but I wouldn’t try it again with him. Here.” I give Jack the washcloth and he takes it.  
       “I just had to get away from Eric. I made some pretty poor decisions, and I regret them all.”  
       “Right now I’d say Larry is the least of your worries,” Jack tells me. He straightens up and walks to the coffee maker set up on top of the table. “Assuming you talked it out in the morning, you can keep this secret for a few. Eric needs to be dealt with. Have you spoken to him at all?”  
       “He walked right past me,” I say, feeling tears rise up again. Our friendship really has meant a lot to me thus far. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t get so overwrought about this. I just wish last night hadn’t happened.”  
       “I’m sure they both do to,” Jack responds, referring to Larry and Eric. He starts up the coffee maker. “No need for apologies of any sort. How is this going to affect your relationship with Bono?”  
       I know exactly what he’s talking about. “Probably nothing will happen. I can keep a secret. It’s not like he loves me back, anyway.”  
       “You never know, with people.” Jack pulls a paper cup from the dispenser next to the coffee maker. “Just saying, it’s a good thing you didn’t try to have sex with _him_ last night. Whatever feelings he does have for you would have been wiped out by Ali.”  
       I hug myself, trying to get a grip on life. Everything’s begun spiraling out of control, and I don’t know what to do next.  
       Jack comes back to the bed and hands me the paper cup. “Coffee?”  
       I take it and inhale it. The warm liquid is more comforting than any of Jack’s maneuvers. “Thank you.”  
While I drink, Jack sits by my side, saying nothing. Finally he pipes up again- “My advice to you would be to talk this out with Eric. Let him know that you’ve never felt anything romantically towards him. He’s been receiving the wrong message for so long- now it needs to be looked at straight in the face. Explain it to him- and whatever you do, don‘t fall for his pity-, and then… deal with Larry.”  
“I already have,” I say.  
Without looking at me, Jack replies, “Good. As for Bono, I guess you can work out your own way of controlling your emotions. I would say don’t let him in on your affair with Larry-“ I refrain from saying that it hasn’t and won’t go that far- “but whatever you do should be fine with yourself. Remember, you‘re the only one who will be affected by it, because you only think you have a meaningful relationship with him.” The words sting, but I try to listen and clear my head. What Jack says is true- my remorseful feelings of cheating on Bono are complete bullshit.  
“That is good advice,” I say. The coffee’s gone and I’m glancing at the door. “I think I should go and unpack. Thanks- thanks for everything, Jack.”  
We embrace, hard and emotionally. Jack tells me, “Don’t be scared, Marieke. Just do what you need to do.” I nod. “Your selflessness amazes me, Jack.”  
“Thank you?” he laughs. “I would give anything to be in your place. Your place with Larry, at least. He’s the hottest man on this tour, and… well, he hasn‘t only been attracting wayward women…”  
I laugh, though my heart hurts, and decide not to point out my own opinions. “And who’s the hottest woman on tour?”  
“You are, obviously.” Jack ducks out of the way of my swat. “See you!”  
I waver down the hall, not sure if I’m stable enough. The tears have left me drained, but the confession has lightened my load. I’m not sure what I’m going to do next- but I know that I have to talk to Eric at the very first chance I get. No hedging in this case.  
***  
Bono is both nervous and happy to be back in Ireland, for the first time in a long time. He nearly regrets letting Ali go… Dublin is only in a few days… But he shakes that thought away. Ali needs to travel to France before heading on to their hometown. The girls need her more than he needs her.   
He meets Marieke for a few brief moments to go over the MacPhisto speech she’s written. It’s poorly done, a first for her. Bono makes a few changes, not wanting to hurt her feelings by completely rewriting it. He knows that she knows it’s a failure, and does everything he can to reassure her. “Next time focus a bit better, that’s all.”  
Marieke nods, the only response of hers to his advice. Bono can’t help noticing how her eyes, usually so bright and blue, are dull and stressed. Her unmoving hands are even more restless today, twisting in on themselves with some greatly covered anxiety. Bono wants to put his arm around her and ask what’s wrong, but stops himself from doing the very thing. Who’s to say it isn’t something Bono himself unknowingly did? He tells himself she’s just concerned about her friend in Rotterdam. Though Marieke could use some cheering up and looking after…  
       My meeting with Bono is insane. I’ve been so distracted by this whole thing with Larry and Eric that my mind has come to a creative dead end. I wonder if this ever happens to Bono? Behind his mask of comfort I see his disappointment. I’ve let Bono down by writing a crappy speech. Somehow this one little fact makes me want to cry. I’m letting things get in my head- too many things. How can I indulge myself on his love when I’ve feasted on the love of another?  
       Not as if we would ever go that far. I keep telling myself that in my mind- Bono and I have no love shared between us. Ugh, this is screwed up. Who knew a one night stand could mess with your head so badly?   
       But one miniscule segment of my brain flips back to the night every second it can get, like changing channels on a television. Because though I have no experience on this part, I’m pretty sure Larry wasn’t very good at it. Not as good as Bono, with that small, sexy body, would be. And seeing as how great it felt with Larry, it must be thousands of times better with Bono. All I have to do is wait for him to fall out of love with Ali, and BAM! He’s in my arms.  
       At the very first chance I get, I snag a talk with Eric. I’m leaving the stadium, poring over MacPhisto’s script, and bump into him literally while trying to escape. Eric attempts to sneak past me, but I grab his shirt. “Listen, Eric. We need to talk.” I drag him into a private place where no one will disturb us.  
         “You’re trying to avoid me? Not after what you said in London. You can’t run from it.”  
       “I could tell you the exact opposite!” Eric is irate. “Who gives a shit what happened in London? What’s happened has happened. Leave me alone.”  
         “We need to talk about it,” I insist. “Don’t you want to? Eric, you told me you loved me- that can’t have been an easy thing for you to do. How many people have you said that to?”  
Eric looks at me, and I see pain in his expression. “Only you. You’re the only one who meant something.”  
Jeez, I can’t go burst his bubble again, now can I? But the emotions are bricked up, leaving a hard woman in place. “I know you adore me- it’s never been a secret- but kissing me without consent was over the line. Don’t try to touch me again.”  
“I thought you loved me back!”  
“Haven’t you heard the news? I love _Bono,_ not you. I’d take him over you in a heartbeat.”  
Eric shivers involuntarily, angry eyes still gazing into mine. “You’d take man who won’t look twice at you over someone who’s done everything for you... someone who’s always been there? Marieke, I’ve spent this entire tour leg working to fulfill your affections. You can’t take that and throw it away!“ I feel his words grow colder and brittle as he ends with a snap of, “You broke my heart last night. You can’t pay for it now.”  
I hold out my hand, revealing the money Bono gave me as payment for my speech. “It appears I’ve collected all your insurance for it, too.”  
I turn and begin to walk away.  
“You know what?” Eric’s shrill voice calls from behind me. “I hope Bono hurts you like you hurt me! I hope you get your heart broken just as hard!” His voice cuts off, and I hear an enraged grunt, quite like he’s kicked a wall. I suppose he has. It doesn’t make me feel any pity for him.  
Well, Marieke, that went splendidly…  
It takes an hour until I’m happy with my revision of MacPhisto’s speech. Bono better like it- my brain is too dead to write anything more. I pillow my head on my arms over the speech, giving in to the urge to sleep I’ve had all day. I can’t believe how emotionally exhausting today’s been. And there are still quite a few things left undone. Maybe I’ll feel better when I’ve had a bit of rest…  
That rest gives me a few ounces of strength that I’ve desperately needed. I wake up with a crick in my neck, but feeling better than I have all day. I look at the clock- wow, I’ve slept for longer than I meant to. It’s time for dinner.  
Jack meets me downstairs and we go out with a few more ravenous crewmen following us. Eric, I see, is one of them. I decide to chance it and give him a wave. He pretends not to even look at me. Someone near the end of the group snickers- “Had a falling out with your boyfriend?” I try not to listen to him, but soon others have taken up the chant- “Dumped Eric for another man, eh? He’s not half-bad… when he speaks above a whisper. What’s Jack got that Eric hasn’t? Maybe they’ve had sex…” And so on.  
Jack has had enough. “If you must know, I’d take a man over Marieke in this space of time.” Which leads to not the gay jokes I expect, but a round of “Burrrn!” and “She’s standing right there, mate, have a heart!” Jack just glares- “I’m _bi,_ gosh, is that too hard for you to understand?”- and stalks off, me trailing his footsteps, with the crewmen suddenly sobered behind us.  
I expect Jack to stick with me for dinner, but he leaves with a wave. “Night, Marieke, look after yourself!” I grab his hand as he backs up. “Hey-“ He’s staring at me. “Why _would_ you take a man over me? You’re not attracted to me a _t all?”_ What I’m really curious about is if he goes through phases where he likes men better than women, women better than men, and so on. It’s worth it pretending to be put out for not explicitly asking what I mean.  
“Eh, I didn’t mean I’d take men in general over you, Marieke,” Jack answers. “I meant I’d take _a_ man- Herman.”  
“Oh,” I say, surprised. “Have you been in touch with him?”  
“Yeah. We’re working things out.” One of the men in our group calls from the other side of the restaurant. Jack lets go of me. “It must be weird for you, having met Herman through your best friend. Well, now I’m off. Have a good night!” He is gone in a few moments to join the others. I wonder if Herman has mentioned Lina at all, and curse myself for not asking about it.  
Cork is a beautiful town, but I could care less. My eyes are on Eric, laughing and chattering with the crewmen. He seems perfectly fine, just ignoring me. I don’t want him to forgive me. He’ll go back to his old ways of stepping all over me. Maybe it’s best that I’ve gotten him out of the picture.  
       After the restaurant, I escape into the warm night air and travel down the sidewalk, listening to cars and Irish accents, blending into one. No one, I notice, has an accent quite like Bono’s. Or like Larry’s for that matter… I stop that thought dead and run my hands over my face. Don’t think about him if you don’t care for him.  
A few blocks down the street, I stop outside a pub. Here would be a good place to enter. I drift around outside, judging the atmosphere before I come in. The calming talk floating from inside is pleasing to the ear, but not enough to make me follow through on my idea. I head away from it, walking in the direction of the hotel.  
       Only after at least fifty paces, I realize I’m going in the wrong direction. I don’t recognize anything, so I haven’t passed by here. But where did I start out from, anyway? It’s impossible to judge how far I’ve walked. I turn at a random direction and hope something will start looking familiar.  
       However, nothing does. All I see around me are streets, buildings, and deep city lights… and I’m lost, I’m out in the town of Cork and I’m hopelessly lost.


	35. Cruel To Be Kind

       It is a very exhausted Marieke who’s brought back to the hotel at the crack of dawn. She staggers on her feet, clutching the arm of the person who found her in the city- Eric. His face is tight, eyes blank, and one can almost sense a roughness in the way he holds her. Marieke is shaking, her face pale, but her eyes are furious. Her complete hatred for her accompanist is apparent to anyone.  
       This anyone is Bono, who was woken up by the muse high in the morning and went downstairs to write. He’s only gotten into a few words of a song before this unhappy duo entered through the front door.  
       “Angel of Holland?” Bono murmurs, standing up. “Eric, what are you-“  
       “We had to get a taxi,” Eric grumbles, dropping Marieke’s arm. “She wasn’t being responsible. She’s been out all night, trying to get back here, and I’ve been out all night looking for her.”  
       “Eric, it was _okay_. You didn’t need to-“ Marieke begins in a sharp voice, but Eric shushes her. Bono is bemused. Just a few days ago they were the best of friends. What’s come between them?  
       He turns his gaze onto Marieke. “Well, Angel, you need to get to bed. How long have you been up?”  
       “I went for a walk in the city after dinner and stayed out until Eric found me,” she says. “I guess I forgot where to go.”  
       Bono rubs his chin. “You need a tour guide.”  
       “Can you provide one?” Marieke asks, her tone indifferent, her eyes downcast.  
       “I’m leaving now,” Eric ventures, and gets no more than a muddled “Bye” from Bono in response. He is about to answer Marieke’s question, but she wavers and slips over to the couch Bono was just sitting on, flopping down and curling up.  
       “Goodnight,” Bono laughs, and sits down carefully in the chair next to her. Marieke slowly falls into unconsciousness. Her eyelids flutter and her chest expands and contracts deeply. Bono looks away, his good mood suddenly shattered. The words of the song have fled from his mind. Bono touches Marieke’s cheek, a forbidden luxury, but quickly pulls his hand back. He turns and walks to the next room, in need of a break. His mind has already replaced words with images of Marieke.  
                                            ***  
       The Cork show goes well, despite me being hazy and out of it from sleeping half the day to enjoy it properly. This is the first time I’ve stood on stage left in the wings, for Eric has taken residence on the other side. It is consequentially the first time I see MacPhisto exit after Can’t Help Falling In Love, and it’s not exactly the best sight. He slinks past me without so much as a glance, his eyes staring far ahead, chest moving with small pants. I pursue him further and observe the transformation from MacPhisto to Bono, a strangely satisfying procedure.  
       Larry still looks at me out of the corner of his eyes with short flickers of wanting and expectance, but I pay him no mind. I know he never truly loved me. That’s no problem for me- I can get off scot-free and bury the whole affair, but I have the feeling it is wearing on him. In a few days, possibly even by tomorrow, he’ll be seeing his girlfriend Ann, and the confusion caused by sleeping with me is sure to be evident in their touches. I hope Larry can put it behind him. But if the feeling of unfaithfulness grows so much that he tells her about our affair- well, how can I stop the secret from spreading to the Zoo crew, and onto the band? And Ann will surely break up with him.  
We pile onto the bus the next morning to drive to Dublin. I squish myself into my seat and place a bass guitar in the spot next to me- occupied. My fingers play with the pocket on my leather jacket as my eyes watch the blue sky outside.  
       The other people on the bus leave me to my musical pursuits. Once I get tired of playing with clothes, I settle for playing with the strings of the bass, and end up working through most of the Zoo TV set. I stop after Bad and rest. Dublin won’t be far.  
 _His hands and mouth bring me to the floor, and yet I feel no pain from falling, because his body is what cushions me. I lie on my back and he kisses me strongly, nothing separating our bodies from each other. He breaks away to breathe, and I stare at the ceiling over our heads and wonder why I’m doing this. The angry stupor is clearing from my mind, and as he rolls over I realize this is my worst mistake yet. But I feel powerless to stop the dance._  
       I wake with a gasp to find that the bus has stopped, the highway crowded. The sign outside my window tells us how many more miles to Dublin. I shake my head, trying to get Larry out of there, and pluck a deep note on the bass for my comfort. At the front of the bus, one head turns. Eric stares at me for no more than a minute, and shifts his gaze back to the front. I don’t acknowledge him.  
       One downside to my falling out with Eric is that all the men in the entourage think I’m single “again.” Everywhere I turn there’s another person ready to ask me out. I turn down every offer with a smile on the outside, but a scowl on the inside. Why can’t they leave me alone?  
       We arrive at the Dublin hotel, and I give Stuart the bass back. He’s proud of me, and I show off a little by playing the Zoo TV set. “Very good, Marieke! Soon you’ll have Adam out of a job.”    Dublin is ready for my exploration. I assume each member of U2 is going home.  
       But it is late by the time any of them actually get back. They’ve been celebrating, soaking up every aspect of being back where they belong. The night has been cause for a great party among the entire entourage. On the streets, people wave to the bandmates, not as celebrities, but as acquaintances. Though there is a small change in the air- Zoo TV has brought the band to such a high level of status that not even the comforting Dubliners can escape the fact that they are in the presence of greatness.  
       Adam returns to his mansion with glee. He lets himself in and yells to the nonexistent company, “I’m home!” Of course no one is inside, but Adam’s brought someone to answer the call. Naomi has been promised an empty house tonight a tour of Dublin tomorrow, and it was enough persuasion for her to come out again to join her lover. The night’s barely even begun, Adam thinks.  
       Larry opens the door to find Ann waiting for him. “Hi,” he murmurs, sinking into her arms. He hasn’t seen her for ages- the tour never stopped in Dublin, and Ann was reluctant to fly out just to see her boyfriend. As Larry kisses her, he can’t believe he made such an awful mistake with Marieke. She must have just been a feminine distraction, he decides. But the regret is overwhelming.  
       Edge comes home with a less than celebratory mood. He’s been dreading the inevitable, and stayed out with Bono far into the night until he couldn’t keep up with the energetic singer. Still, even passing out drunk in a club is better than this. Edge gazes out at his empty home, remembering a time when he lived with a wife and three beautiful children. They’ve been taken from him with the end of Aislinn’s love. Opening the door to his house, a few words spring to his mind, words that Edge wrote the first time he came home alone, and now thinks of every time he has to repeat the action:  
 _Jesus, Jesus help me_  
 _I’m alone in this world_  
 _And a fucked up world it is too_  
       Bono does not go home. He stays up far into the night, reveling in the drinks and dancing and rock star excess that the Zoo tour is accustomed to. This is an even harder party than is usually thrown on tour, for Bono’s in his native town. And having his native town be Irish, the drinks are hardcore. Bono decides there is no reason to go to his empty house- Ali and the kids are in the South of France on vacation. He can’t think too straight anyway, and figures it’s best to crash in a hotel room. Soon evening spreads its wings against Bono’s eyelids as he drifts away, not entirely happy, but covering it up as he waits for sleep to come.  
                                             ***  
       “Hi,” I greet the entourage early in the morning, trying to appear less excited than I actually am. Today we’re in _Dublin,_ of all places. Heaven knows I can’t wait to pick up my exploration from where I left off last night.  
       I take a seat in the dining hall alone, and a few crewmen give me nods. Eric is far across the room, pretending not to notice me. He has his friends anyhow. I gaze for one second, expressing my disinterest, and take my breakfast easily.  
       All day, work is all I’m ready to do. We drive down to the RDS Arena, and I help set up the stage.    It’s only to get my hands working, to ease the restlessness in me. Virtually I have no real work around here until Bono meets me. Technicians stalk across the stage, and Stuart gives me a wave that I return. Eric ignores me from a few feet away.  
       The band finally arrives at the stadium- which truly is, despite its name, a stadium and not an arena- a good deal into the day. I’ve had lunch by this time and have nothing else to do but hang around playing the bass. Being in the band’s hometown does have its disadvantages- I don’t know _where_ Bono will be next. Obviously he’s my only goal for today. We need to score a writing session.  
       My first glimpse of Bono doesn’t come quickly. In fact I am so wrapped up in the song I’m working on- Bad- that I barely notice his coming. The other band members are blurred shapes, worthy of a nod from me and not much else. I get a slight twinge at Larry, but even that is fading.    At once a pair of hands clap down on my shoulders, startling me out of the reverie.  
       “What the hell-oh,” I blurt, dropping my hands at the sight of Bono’s eyes in front of me. He instantly laughs, a wonderful sound, but I involuntarily cringe in embarrassment.  
       “What’s up, Angel?” He hovers around me, luscious and crave-inspiring. I stare at my fingers, examining the effects of the bass strings. “Just hanging around,” I mutter. “Thought the bass could use some playing.”  
      “That’s what I’m here for,” Adam admonishes me, swiping at my instrument. He giggles at my smirk. “Thanks for getting it warmed up for me!”  
       “And probably out of tune,” Stuart says mournfully.  
       Bono surveys us with a casual air. He flashes a smile. “Glad to see everyone’s still getting along.”  
       “Hey, we have work to do here, Bono,” I say. “Got any speech related ideas ready?”  
       Bono pulls a sidelong glance and moves in towards me, making it seem as if we’re the only ones in the area. He’s probably doing this on purpose. “Well… actually, Angel, I have had some ideas. But it doesn’t include you.”  
       I feel like I’ve been slapped with his words. What a nice way to tell someone you don’t need them anymore! Raising my eyebrow, I ask, “What, is it going to be a surprise?” My voice has turned all cocky.  
       “Well, yes, exactly that,” Bono answers. I can tell he feels uncomfortable turning me down. After all, the scriptwriting for MacPhisto makes up my life right now. I’m paid only to do it.  
“I can’t wait to hear it,” I grin, -inwardly upset- and turn my back on him. The bass playing resumes, and I get lost again.  
       Bill has entered the stadium with the band, seemingly determined in trailing them. I guess when you’re trying to write a book, you have to capture every single detail. Not stopping my fingers, I call “Hi!” to him.  
       “Hey!” Bill calls back, his eyes glinting. I can tell I’ve impressed him with my playing. “Can you tell what song this is?”  
       “Damned if I know- kidding, Marieke!” I shoot him with my eyes, and Bill chuckles. “Of course you’re playing-”  
       “Hint- it’s a U2 song,” I rush.  
       “…Mysterious Ways…”  
       “Darn it!” I yelp, hitting a wrong string. “Screwed up again…”  
       Bill’s humored eyes dart around. “I take it we’re not going to be seeing you onstage anytime soon?”   
“Probably not,” I say, regretful. I’d honestly like to take a chance onstage once more. Now I see why Bono can’t keep away from it.  
“Where have you been, anyway, Bill? I rarely see you at all around here.” Couldn’t hurt giving a conversation starter.  
     From somewhere behind me Bono’s voice chimes. “He’s been out keeping up with the rockstars like me.”  
       “And what-”I eyeball Bill- “does he mean by that?”  
       “He wasn’t at home last night,” Bill begins evasively.  
       “And I found it near impossible to get a room!” Bono chuckles at himself and at us. “We stayed out all night.” I look down at the bass guitar, indifferent, and Bono moves towards the steps to take us from the underground- “See you, Angel. Don’t take the speech thing too hard, surely there’s another light in your day?”  
       “That was the only thing I had planned,” I murmur, plucking at a string.  
       “Well, it’s time to reconsider.” Bono steps onto the stage, and I give up playing to watch him move.  
                                         ***  
       “It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right… sleepin’ in my own bed tonight.” Bono- or rather, The Fly- sounds pleased with that thought. I am too- just glad to hear Bono in such a great mood.  
       U2 play an epic show in Dublin. Their hometown welcomes them back. I feel overwhelmed from all the love, and as it’s not even meant for my receiving I can’t imagine how the band must feel. To surprise the hometown audience, they treat them to an acoustic version of I Will Follow, and I freak out just as much as the fans. The band exits the stage wearing matching smiles.  
       “So here’s the big surprise,” I comment as Bono gets his outfit together.  
       “Trust me.” How can I not trust that expression?  
       MacPhisto comes into being in absolute record time. He has to wait for the rest of U2 to return to the stage before taking it himself. I can see the waves of excitement running through his skin, and strain against my urge to take his hand. MacPhisto winks back at me- “Showtime!”- before making his entrance to the bright Zoo TV lights.  
       The money goes flying, the harmonica starts humming, and my head goes off its rocker and makes straight for the clouds. One other downfall to my argument with Eric is that I don’t have anyone to steady me for the full-blown effect of MacPhisto. He tucks his harmonica away, and as the last spurns of Desire haunt the stage, I wait to see what he’s got in store for tonight.  
       “Look what you’ve done to me.” The old Devil shakes his head fondly. “You’ve made me very famous, and I thank you for that.”  
       The crowd responds in the obvious way. MacPhisto carries on, “I know you like your pop stars to be exciting, so I bought these.” So far so good. As long as MacPhisto doesn’t start pulling all the old phrases out of the hat, Bono is proving himself a worthy writer.  
       “Now look at me, I’m gigantic,” MacPhisto says, nodding to himself. “Oh, what a night, what a show. Home with the people who love us more than anybody else in the whole world!”  
       The Dubliners are pleased. MacPhisto cries, “Home with the people who see through all the trappings and the hype! Home with the people who know the real me!” Now I’m getting nervous. MacPhisto is veering off a bit- isn’t the real him the pop star who _loves_ trappings and hype? My nerves are stretched further when he follows that up with, “Home with the people who don’t see me as a glamorous pop star! Home with the people who call me Dad.”  
       Each statement gets its own round of applause, but the fans seem confused after that last line. MacPhisto does not have children. This is Bono himself speaking- and that, in my book, is strictly out of line.  
       “I’m going to sleep in my own bed tonight,” says MacPhisto, pleased as a peach. My hands slam into each other, forming fists. “Shall I give them a telephone call? Perhaps I should warn them- I know they’re excited to see me after so long.”  
       First off, he didn’t even explain who “they” are. Secondly, _MacPhisto is not Bono._ If Bono wants to make a home phone call, he doesn’t have to use his character to do it. And onstage, of all times…  
       MacPhisto dials the phone, punching the numbers with joy, and murmurs, “I’m so tired of hassling people, it’s such a bore.” He waits for my mouth to drop open on that sentence before continuing, “This is going to be so exciting!”  
       God. For the first time I want to tell MacPhisto to shut up. This is Bono’s surprise? How could he have expected me to like it?  
       We wait for only a little while- the number MacPhisto calls is local, so it makes it through the lines just fine. When the other end picks up, it’s unclear if this is the answering machine or a real person- “Helllooo! Nobody’s here! We’re going on holidaaaay!” The voice is that of a young girl, who I assume is Bono’s daughter. She sounds perfectly charming. “Daddy, if that’s you, we’re not coming home until you take your horns off! Bye-byeee!” Another little voice is added- “Byeee!”- before the line cuts off, and the satisfied audience applauds deeply, loving the little girls. I do not applaud, seeking approval instead in the way MacPhisto hangs up and starts to sing Ultraviolet without even a mention of the call. This is not how I would have written the speech- Bono should know better than to insert himself so obviously into MacPhisto’s words. I try to scour the voices on the other line from my mind.  
       Darting away from MacPhisto for a moment, my eyes find another pair with mirrored anger-Eric, who is staring right at me from across the stage. He jolts a bit, and glares before looking away. I pretend to ignore him.   
MacPhisto sings with just the right touches of sadness. Ironically, I find pleasure in his pain. Love Is Blindness tears him apart, and as he dances with a fan I see her straining in his grasp, trying to get him to loosen his armlock. MacPhisto’s eyes are closed, blind to her wish. He just needs someone to hold- and instead of wishing it was me, I breathe a little deeper, hoping he’s got all the comfort he needs.  
MacPhisto lets her go back to her seat. His face is drained, a small corner of his mouth turning down, but his hands are steel on the microphone. I feel the exhaustion running through him as if it’s my own, and guess that he’s been feeding off the audience for too long. “Wise men say only fools rush in…”  
“But I can’t help falling in love with you,” I whisper.  
“Shall I stay?” he inquires. “Would it be a sin…”  
“If I can’t help falling in love with you,” my vice answers, twining around with his in the night air. He doesn’t know I’m singing- or can those ears pick my voice up even from out there? No, the crowd is too loud, too brutal in response to my callings. They want to answer his questions too, every single one of them. But how many actually know the man behind the makeup?  
“Like a river flows to the sea, so it goes… some things were meant to be,” MacPhisto decides. He reaches in falsetto.  
“Taaaaake my haaand… take my whole life too.” His blue eyes are shut. Mine fall closed as well. We answer the same lyric- “But I can’t help falling in love with you.” I snap my gaze back and settle it on MacPhisto. He backs away from the audience’s promise, seeking something more than what they can give, and my secret beats in my heart, dying to give itself up.  
“I can’t help falling in love with you.” MacPhisto speaks it in an intimate manner, addressing it to one person, and I know it’s not me, but foolishly claim the words. MacPhisto’s voice trembles, but he keeps the ending note steady as he addresses the final line to the crowd. “I can’t help falling in love with you.” The audience roars in thunderous applause, and MacPhisto breaks free of mourning with a small smile. He inclines his head and moves backstage- and bumps into me.  
       I want the sin of the Devil’s lips on mine, and he knows I want it. We can, however, do nothing more than stare at each other for the time being. MacPhisto has a hungry look in his eye that I recognize. I dart away from him and he slinks back into the dressing room. For once I don’t follow.  
         The removal of the dreaded costume brings Bono back around to feeling more human. He folds MacPhisto’s clothes and rubs a hand over his face, wondering where Marieke is. The exhiliration of the crowd has fed Bono tonight, and they gave it all back to him, all and more, with the conclusion of the concert. He wavers, dreaming that if he goes back out they’ll be in place again for another round of songs. It takes willpower not to step onstage again. Bono slides his shirt over his head, waiting for the emotions to settle, and wonders again where the hell is Marieke?  
       Sighing, Bono dresses completely and moves to the door, ready to let in whoever wants to be let in. He muses briefly on the need for a separate room for the lead singer. Maybe they know that growing out of MacPhisto is a more private affair- and Marieke’s good at helping him with that- she should be here by now… The people begin to come in and he forgets all about her.  
       Amidst the flocking of people to Bono’s dressing room, congratulating the band on a great show, no one notices me cast away in the background, waiting for a moment to intrude upon the scene. When it begins to appear that there will be none, I unball my fist and slide away. He’s going to get it for writing that awful speech… will have to be tomorrow. I exit the stadium, and try as I might to get them out I can still hear them- _“Bye-byeeee!”_ Two young girls, echoes of a life that does not include me.  
                                       ***  
It has taken a night of pure lovemaking to get the last remnants of Marieke out of Larry’s body. He swears he can still feel her, however, when Ann’s eyes are upon him. No amount of sex can erase that fear that lingers, the fear that Ann will find out about his night with Marieke. Larry can’t imagine what she would do if she discovered he’d been unfaithful.  
Or… has he been unfaithful? Throughout the years of staying with Ann, never once did either of them have a serious talk about marriage. There were the innuendos, the hinting, and of course that big decision when Ann moved into Larry’s house. But never once did they sit down and discuss it- Larry feels Ann is waiting for Larry to make the move, and he’s apprehensive about getting into the whole marriage business. What if they don’t work out as a couple and have to go through divorce as Edge and Aislinn did? Larry has watched firsthand the troubles that Edge went through with being separated from his wife, and he’s too worried that the same could happen to him. Besides, he’s never been a big fan of the marriage business anyway.  
Ann is the real thing. There has never been anything so far from a doubt in Larry’s mind as to that. He loves her, he truly does. How could Larry have let his little crush with Marieke grow physical? It was a bad, bad mistake that will never be worth repeating. He tries to feel nothing when he looks at her, not even the shock of _she’s so pretty._  
There’s only one thing to do that will assure Larry he’ll never cheat on Ann again. Tossing aside all his previous beliefs, he decides being single can’t be worth the fuss- Larry has always wanted his girl, why not make it official? His stomach is filled with butterflies, but he swallows it back- the first step is seeing how Ann will take it.  
Four words are whispered in the night, just four words, low enough for Ann’s ears. She rolls onto her side to face Larry, her eyes wide with shock and- hope.  
***  
It is an angry Marieke that Bono faces the day after the first Dublin concert, a few seconds after he’s got to the stadium. Bono glances confusedly at me as I sit down and choke back annoyance- “What was your speech last night all about?”  
Bono stares at Marieke for a few seconds and lets his eyes roll off her. She’s cornered him as soon as he entered this place to talk about the phone call. What surprises Bono most is the honest lividness in her expression. He watches her fingers tremble, and realizes she could sweep him off his feet with a blow.  
“Marieke, this is not a good time,” he tells her, and indeed it isn’t. Bono hasn’t had a good night for a homecoming. First of all, he hadn’t actually made it home again, preferring to stay out with a large ensemble of friends. By the time he managed to crash somewhere- where, he hadn’t really paid attention to, he just needed some rest for the second show in Dublin the following day- the streetlights were going out. But it wasn’t just the little sleep he’d had last night that was giving him a bad, conflicted mood- it was the fact that by the time all the partying wore off, there had been no chance to call France, call Bono’s family. He’d hoped that their vacation would be over by the time he reached Dublin, but no. Seeing Ali in Cork wasn’t enough- Bono is beginning to miss her badly, almost as much as the time in Italy. He supposes that’s the reason behind his keeping away from home. Unlike Adam, an empty house is more of a curse than a blessing to Bono.  
I glance to the ceiling, locked in Bono’s dressing room. “Why is this not a good time? Just tell me why you decided to write from your perspective and not the character’s.”  
Bono thinks that he could find many reasons as to why this is not a good time. Dealing with the leftover emotion churning within him from last night is not done well with company. Bono has been expecting that if he stepped onstage he could work out the feelings in song and motion. And then there is the shoulder problem. Something has happened overnight- maybe from the show, from the partying, who knows- that strained a muscle in Bono’s shoulder quite badly. It hurts to move it. Bono just wants to get the sound check over with so he can rest the muscles in his arm.  
But this pesky Marieke won’t go away…  
My eyebrows raise, still waiting for an answer. Bono evades my gaze. Finally he tells me, “It’s just not the right time, Angel. I can explain- I wanted to call home because, well, I hadn’t been there yesterday.” Bono clears his throat a bit awkwardly and continues, “I wasn’t thinking of being in character- it’s not fair to get on my case about it when I was… missing my family…” He trails off, and I blink in sympathy.  
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, but instantly shake my head at myself. I have to retain that anger at Bono, even if it is for a stupid reason. What Bono thinks it’s about is hardly valid- my anger is more over the way he called his family last night, and I’m very, very stupidly jealous.  
“But your family wasn’t even at home,” I point out. “They were on holiday.”  
“I knew that,” Bono mumbles, reaching up unconsciously to scratch the back of his neck. “Ow!”  
My shreds of irritance evaporate. “What’s wrong?”  
“Nothing,” Bono answers in a low voice. I watch him carefully, observing the way his hand moves freely but his arm is lowered mechanically, not in that usual jolt of motion that I’m accustomed to seeing in Bono.  
“No, it’s not nothing,” I say. “Does your arm hurt?”  
Bono looks uncomfortable. Marieke will want to know what hurt his shoulder, and she’s not going to rest until she’s sure it’s okay. Maybe Bono can downplay it.  
“Strained it a bit, performing last night,” Bono sighs. “It’s really nothing, as I said… can we get back to the point?”  
“The point being that I’m a much better scriptwriter than you?” I ask. Bono winces at my words. “You don’t want to go back to that. Case closed. Let me see that shoulder.”  
“No!” A phantom sense of her hands roaming across his back worms its way into Bono’s mind. Furiously he shuts it out. “I’m barely injured at all.”  
     I inch in closer to Bono and peer into his eyes, wallowing in that pit of sapphire. “Take off your shirt,” I whisper, my tone as smooth and creamy as chocolate. He refuses to move. I lean in and undo the buttons down the front, letting it slip off him.  
 _Stop her, you fool!_ Though Bono curses himself in his mind, he can’t make a move to get Marieke away from him. The old remnants of onstage yearning burns through Bono’s body, making him desire the touch.  
       I squeeze myself in behind Bono and face his bare and freckled back. There’s nothing that gives me an idea of where the sore spot is, but judging from Bono’s movements I think I can locate it. My hands cautiously touch Bono’s shoulder, and work their way below. As I apply light pressure, Bono sucks in a pained breath. I know I’ve hit the right place. My fingers massage his skin, loosening the cramping muscle.  
       “Am I hurting you?” If I am he doesn’t say anything. My fingers tingle with the delicious sensation of Bono. Suddenly I press my lips to the strained area, feeling that I’m kissing it rapturously, but with no more contact than a butterfly would have on a human in reality. At once I realize what I’m doing, and pull back and step to the side, embarrassed. Bono’s staring at me.  
       “To make it feel better,” I say, aware that he’s suspicious. My mind flashes back to the phone booth incident in Bologna.  
       “Marieke.” Bono hesitates on the words, but he gets them into my ears sure enough. “Get out.”  
       “Bono, what about the-”  
       “Get out.” He pulls his shirt back on. “Please.”  
       Unable to refuse that sad puppy expression, I do as he says and back out the door, unsure of what to do next. God, I screwed it up, didn’t I? Why is it so hard to remind myself that _Bono doesn’t love me back?_  
       I start to walk away from the dressing room, far away, and barely give so much as a nod to the crewmen I encounter. The talk with Bono didn’t go over well at all, and it was all because of me- my insistence to help him with the shoulder even when he told me it was fine. Let’s face it- I’m letting my lust take over, and I resent it horribly.   
       The next thing I know, I’m walking back into the hotel. I suppose there’s nothing else for me to do around here- but we’re in Dublin for crying out loud, shouldn’t there be some sort of activity to engage my brain?! I’ve always wanted to see the place U2 started out in, but somehow it doesn’t feel right to go out without knowing what it is I’m looking at. My bones feel kind of heavy in a strange way, too- maybe I shouldn’t be doing any walking.  
       Well, it looks like the best choice is to write a redeeming speech. I have to grudgingly admit, at least Bono’s speech last night went over well. Even if he did write it for himself… I ask for some paper and a pencil at the front desk and settle down into one of the couches in the lobby. Pity it isn’t gold.  
       As soon as my pencil’s on the paper I find myself scratching out the words- “Do you know who I am? I know who you are. I know you all even better than you know yourself.” It’s been a while since MacPhisto used that phrase, and I miss it.   
         Words begin pouring out of me, jagged words from my inner conflicts and healing words from the love I harbor. My own self disappears, or rather magnifies into the shape of someone new and old at the same time. I am MacPhisto; I am seeing the world through his eyes. Before I know it, the speech is done, with a blank space where the name of the person to call should be. I reread my speech and pick a candidate for the caller. It flows hilariously. If Bono doesn’t like it we can always call someone else.  
     “Hey.” I lift my head to find Jack giving a wave as he breezes out the door.  
       “Hi!” I call, standing up. “Wait for me!” I stride along after him.  
       The sun plays with my hair, drenching each smooth curl in a bronze coating. Jack’s hair remains chocolate as light attempts to penetrate it. I tease the back of his neck with a finger. “Your cut’s gone shaggy.”  
         “That’s all right,” he says, even-tempered. “I’ve just gone out to get a haircut.” My smile lights up the busy street, and he stops me to look both ways before crossing. “What have you been up to, Marieke?”  
       “I was writing,” I say. “Here, take a look.” I hand Jack the speech, and he plants both feet firmly on the sidewalk to read. When it’s over, he lowers the paper with an unusual grin. “Clever.”  
       “I’m still not sure how it’s going to work,” I confess. “The chances are slim that they’ll ever pick up.”  
       “How would Bono get the number anyway?” Jack asks, sliding down the sidewalk, and I have to follow him.  
       “Hey, he got Salman Rushdie’s number, and he was in hiding. So I think Bono can reach the United Nations just fine.”  
       We turn down an alley and walk in comfortable, companionable silence. Now that I’m out and about, my eyes are able to gaze around Dublin with a whole new light. The setting is not quite as urban as it is suburban, less town than country. There’s an indescribable spirit in the air, something that I can only describe as _welcome home._ I find myself wanting to stop strangers in the street and wish them a good day.  
         Jack and I enter the hair parlor and I watch with amusement as Jack’s bangs are trimmed down to a more conventional style just barely below his ears. “How’s it look to you?” the woman asks, and turns Jack’s chair towards the mirror. He groans. The woman appears upset. Jack shakes his head- “I never find a style I like. It’s okay.”  
       “How about mine?” I ask, shaking my ponytail at him.  
       “Well, now it’s too short to curl,” he answers, “or put up. But yes, Marieke, that look suits you.”  
       “Are you going next?” the woman asks me. How I love Irish accents.  
       “No,” I say, jerking my thumb towards Jack. “I’m helping pay for him.”  
       Jack climbs out of his chair. “Why thank you, Marieke, how kind of you to do so.” We pay for the haircut and exit, Jack touching his head gingerly ever few seconds.  
       As soon as we’re out, my head snaps down to read the speech again. I realize I’ve forgotten to put a date on it at the top. “Jack, what day is it?” I ask, reaching into my pocket for my pencil.  
       “Um… it’s Saturday. August 28th,” he lets me know.  
         My hand stops midair with lifting the pencil out. “My birthday is tomorrow!”  
         “Awesome,” Jack comments, his face in a smile. “How old are you going to be?”  
         “The big three-oh,” I say. “Three years younger than Bono, no less. Here, let me have your back.” Jack bends over and I smooth the speech over his back, scrawling the date with a flourish and a grin.  
                                        ***  
         Later in the day I wander back down to the stadium, hoping not to meet Bono, but he’s the first one to see me. He catches me in the middle of some intense bass improvising, and just stands and listens before I realize he’s watching me.  
       “What do you want?”  
     “Zooropa,” Bono sings half-heartedly. “Hey, Angel.”  
       I slide my hands down the bass and eye him. “Where did everyone go?”  
       “If you mean band members, Adam and I are the only ones here right now.” Oh, that’s right- Adam gave me his bass to practice with. I’ve definitely seen him. “I’m clearing out soon, Angel. Have you done any work on the speech?”  
       I stiffen. He thinks he’s gotten me in a tough place, but little does he know I came prepared. “Yes, I finished it this afternoon,” I say, and whip out the paper to present it to Bono. He reads slowly, turning to the side.  
       Before I know it, Bono’s reserved expression has changed to heartfelt. He’s completely enthralled in the script. When he puts it down, I swear the look in his eyes knocks me out. Bono is gazing at me with such admiration that it’s overpowering, and his face is open, every thought running across is like a movie screen.   
       “Marieke.” His voice is saturated in satisfaction. “I love it.”  
       Suddenly Bono’s arms are around me, hugging my slender body roughly. “I love _you,”_ he clarifies, and my mind runs rampant until he says, “I love your way with words. The speech is beautiful.”  
       Neither of us want to break free of the embrace. I can hear Bono pulling deep breaths through his lungs- music to my ears. My hands, though they want to roam freely, remain latched at his back, patting down the sore spot on his shoulder. If I can live without love in exchange for this contact, I might just do it.  
       Bono feels everything that’s been ganging up on him today slide over his body and splash on the ground. He’s been struggling today, really in a mood due in part to his shoulder injury and his longing for his family. Marieke’s speech, written perfectly down to the last period, is just the thing to drag him out of that foolish misery. He’s in his hometown, and can fully appreciate it now. As Bono holds Marieke close, he finds himself thanking God that she came in today.  
       I press myself closer to Bono, squeeze him, and finally let go, stepping back. He sways for a moment on his feet, losing balance without my support. I give him a serious glance. “Are you okay?”  
       Bono looks up at the roof and darts back down to me. “It’s been a crappy day, Angel. Thanks for coming in and bringing something to make it a lot better.”  
       “Does your shoulder still hurt?” I ask.  
“Not as badly, no.” He quickly moves on to something else. “Well, tell me now, Marieke- how am I supposed to call the United Nations?”  
       “Don’t they have a number somewhere?”  
       “I wouldn’t be able to find it.” Bono sighs. “Can MacPhisto stand to call someone else?”  
       I’m not sure what exactly Bono means by that. “I’d try to rewrite if you have someone new in mind.”  
       Adam’s shout breaks us out of our talk- “Marieke! Hey, can I have my bass back?” He smoothly steps up and takes it from my hands.  
       “Haven’t you ever heard of the word “please”?” I murmur.  
       “Sure I have, just don’t always use it.” He grins. “Hey Bono!”  
“Are you leaving now, Adam?” Bono asks, crossing his arms.  
       “Might as well. There’s an entire house waiting for me.” Adam strums a few strings on the guitar. “Nice tone…” he murmurs to himself. “Really great tuning.”  
Bono faces me again. “Okay, if we can’t call the United Nations I’ve got-”  
“What?” Adam jumps in again. “You’re trying to call the UN?”  
     “That was my original idea, but I don’t think it’s going to happen,” I explain.  
“What, so you’re giving up because you don’t know their number? That’s never stopped you before, Bono. I mean, all it takes is one ring for someone to say, ‘Hello, this is the front office of the United Nations’…”  
“Front office?” I laugh.  
“Why of course- how do you think they’re so organized?” Adam laughs along with me. “I’d love to help you out here, Marieke.”  
“Hm.” Bono scratches his chin. “And why don’t you do exactly that?”  
We both look at him.  
“Adam, that was quite humorous. Who says we need to get through to a real person, anyway? We could record someone’s voice on an answering machine- someone standing in for a real UN worker.” Bono spreads his arms wide. “It’s perfect!”  
“All we’d have to do is manipulate an answering machine,” I say. “Yes, Bono, it is perfect.” I give him a smile, which he warmly exchanges.  
“Adam- you want to do the recording or…” Bono gestures vaguely with his left hand, and we both know there is no choice. Adam chuckles.  
“It was practically my idea- I mean, I’m your inspiration. Of course I’m going to do it! And besides- I feel I should help Marieke, for all the help she’s given me with keeping my basses in check.” I laugh- “Stuart wouldn’t agree! He’d say I mess with them far too often.” Adam and Bono walk off, heads close together. I call after them, “Make sure to make it funny!” Tonight’s going to be a great show.  
       Bono still refuses to go home- after working out the phone call with Adam, he strolls along down the street, listening to the hum of the passersby. The sight of a pay phone stops him in his tracks. He thinks of his family in France, and estimates that now wouldn’t be an outlandish time to call them. Inserting a few coins, Bono listens to the ringing on the other end of the line. This reminds him of something, but he’s not sure what… There seems to be something very familiar about street phones.  
       No one answers his call, and Bono remembers with a jolt that the family is flying back to Dublin tonight for the show. Hanging up, Bono scratches his head and walks out, where he blunders his way into a small group of U2 fans. That’s strange- in previous times Bono remembers the Dubliners respecting his privacy, but they’re coming from all over now. He chats with them about the music, and walks away feeling a bit empty, though he can’t put his finger on why.  
                                   ***  
         For the second night in Dublin city, things go even better than the first night. The band rushes through the first few songs with spot on accuracy. I’m panting by the time One comes on, having danced my way through the first four. Bono seems extremely happy, though at a few times he winces when moving his arm- obviously that shoulder strain isn’t healed. The audience is wildly responsive, completely enamored with the music.  
       U2 exchanges I Will Follow for When Loves Comes To Town, which is not my preferred song but hey, I have to make do. Bono dedicates Satellite of Love to the Zoo TV crew, and a cheer goes up from backstage. Now Bad is beginning down on the B stage- an amazing performance.  
Bono crawls down the catwalk, microphone in hand. He smiles at the fans, and Edge begins a complicated riff. At once I am bombarded by memories of Lina. She should be here… she should be here…  
     “If you twist and turn away…” Bono murmurs into the microphone. “If you tear yourself in two again… if I could, I would, if I could, I would let it go.”  
       His voice is so emotive. I find myself gasping quietly to myself. Bono tips his head to the sky. “Surrender, dislocate…   
       “If I could throw this lifeless lifeline to the wind…” He grips the mic and breaths into it, eyes closing. I find myself wishing he still had that “lifeless lifeline” attached to the microphone. It adds so much to the performance.“Leave this heart of clay, see you walk, walk away.” The fans cheer. Bono isn’t looking at them. “Into the light, and through the day… into the half-light, and through the flame.”  
Edge’s intricate guitar patterns are offset by the thunking of Adam’s bass, a line I love to play on the instrument. Bono’s voice remains wild, and he opens his eyes to draw back from the stage. “If I could through myself set your spirit free… I’d _lead your heart away! SEE YOU BREAK, BREAK AWAY!”_ He sounds just as spirited as any version I’ve ever heard. Bono’s voice calms down to sing the next notes. “Into the light… and through the rain.” I think I’m singing- it’s hard to tell when the audience is so loud in their own voices.  
Bono turns on his heel and croons in falsetto bursts. “So let it go, and so not fade away! Let it go, and so fade away!” His scorching bellow for the next words always gets me. However, this time the next line is sung in falsetto, a beautiful surprise. “I’M WIIIIIIIIIDE AWAAAAAAAAAKE! I’M WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIDE AWAAAAAAAAAAKE! I’M WIIIIIIIDE AWAAAAKE… I’m not sleeping.” The last line comes out in a sort of whimper. I whisper it to myself- _I’m not sleeping._  
“Oh no, no…” Bono hums, and drifts over the audience. He runs his palms over the fans’ own, and they squeal with delight. Edge concentrates intensely on his guitar, relaxed on the outside but no doubt working furiously in his head. Bono whispers to the mic, “If I should ask, well maybe they’d tell me what I would say… true colors fly in blue and black, blue silken sky and burning flag.” He leans into the mic, and it’s the sort of moment that would make me snap a picture if I had a camera.   
“Colors crash, collide in bloodshot eyes…” His voice is sultry, beautiful, and silky as he reaches the falsetto again. “If I could, you know I would, if I could, I would let it go!” Now comes the big moment. Larry strikes the cymbals.  
         “This desperation…” Bono whirls around. “Condemnation… revelation, in temptation, _ISOLATION! DESOLAAAAATION!_ Let it go!” He swings the microphone, moving one knee to the frantic beat. “And so not fade away! To let it go, and so not fade away! To… let it go…” The music overwhelms me, and I clutch at my throat, trying to release something in there- a sob, maybe.   
         “And so not fade, fade, fade away!” Edge curls in on some pretty fine playing at this moment, breaking myself out of the heaviness of emotion. Bono slows on the catwalk, moving his feet in time with the beat. He closes his eyes, and a pure grin slips over his face. I wait.  
         Finally all the band members cool down and Edge slips back into his accustomed riff. Bono, without opening his eyes, draws breath to sing bits and pieces of other songs. By the end of Bad he inserts a U2 song in there.  
         “I have a lover… a lover like no other. She got soul, soul, soul, sweet soul, and she teach me how to sing.” Jealousy starts burning irrationally for this lover. “Shows me colors when there’s none to see… gives me hope when I can’t believe, that for the first time…” Bono opens his eyes. “I feel…” I hold my breath, waiting for the final note, and suddenly it explodes out of Bono’s throat in a startling cry- “LOOOVE!” The rest of the band bursts into Bullet The Blue Sky.  
         Instead of helping MacPhisto get dressed tonight, I leave the job up to Eric and watch the video confessionals. The Zoo crew has all been persuaded to go and confess their sins, and it makes me snort with laughter to see the faces that I know so well reveal their shocking secrets.  Soon the band reenters the stage and begins Desire. I watch with delight, an entity taking ahold of my body and forcing me to scream my lungs out as MacPhisto appears onstage. He acknowledges the crowd with a few waves of the hand. It takes strength not to run out and give him a hug.  
         As the song winds down, MacPhisto screams into the air. “What a guitar player!” The cannons shoot Zoo ECUs into the air. “What a city!” BOOM. “What a night, what a show! ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOROPA! ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOROPA! MYYYYYYYYYY ZOOOOOOOOOOROPA!”  
I have to stop screaming because my voice is hoarse. MacPhisto lifts one leg and dances backwards, a huge smile revealing white teeth. He waits for the audience to stop screaming too, and croaks into the mic. “You know who I am…” I hear several “MacPhisto!”’s being yelled. Yes, they do know who he is. And now is my chance to watch my speech unfold, the very best one I’ve ever written.  
“Cause I know who you are. I know you all probably even better than you know yourself.” The audience cheers. Mr. MacPhisto sighs. “What a night, what a show! Zooropa, it’s all over.” He scuffs his golden boot into the dollars strewn across the stage.  
“So many people have come out to see us tonight I don’t know what to say… thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you…” The fans cheer once more. MacPhisto eyes them searchingly.  
“But you know, there’s someone who used to come out to see us all the time and who hasn’t… been round for a while. We used to be so close.” He lets the last words collapse in on itself. “People think I’ve forgotten about him, but… I haven’t, I used to find him so inspiring back then. He invented me! I was His most magnificent creation, the brightest star in His sky!” The line is being pulled off so beautifully that I almost can’t believe it. When I wrote it just this afternoon, I hadn’t had anyone in particular on the mind, it just came out of me. Now I see the deeper meaning. The audience will more than likely think that the “He” MacPhisto is referring to is God. I, however, see He as being Bono. Bono, to the best of my knowledge, is the one to invent MacPhisto, and he certainly hasn’t come out to see the Devil perform recently.  
“Now look at me- a tired old pop star in platform shoes,” MacPhisto laments. If he would turn his head to the wings, I’d always be there with a word of encouragement. But MacPhisto only locks his gaze on the cheering crowd, and comments, “Even the Evening Herald slags me off.” That’s an adlib, but judging from the crowd’s laughter I think I’m not bothered by it.  
“Who can I get to help me make peace with Him?” MacPhisto asks rhetorically, gesturing towards the sky. “Who will mediate for me, and-” The pause is stiff, but a pause all the same. “Shall I call the United Nations? Maybe they can help me…”  
The fans cheer their support as MacPhisto goes over to the phone and removes his headgear. “Off with the horns, on with the show…” We all hush up, waiting for him to dial.   
“Hello?” MacPhisto offers. He waits. “Hello?” I hold my breath, for I haven’t heard Adam’s bit in this yet. And it comes loud and clear over the line.  
“You’ve reached the front office of the United Nations. I’m sorry, we’re closed for lunch.” Taken aback, I start to giggle, and MacPhisto moans. “Oh…” The recorded message continues, “But if you are a small third world nation facing genocide, please leave you country’s name after the beep and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you!”  
I nearly double over with laughter. As the beep sounds, MacPhisto begins to sing wearily. “When I was younger, so much younger than today… I never needed anybody’s help in any way. Now these days are gone, I’m not so self-assured. Now I find I’ll change my mind and open up the door…”  
The audience has begun singing along by this point. “Help me if you can, I’m feeling down… and I do appreciate you being round… help me get my feet back on the ground… won’t you-” MacPhisto throws the phone to the mercy of the audience and they sing a cappella, “Please, please help me! Help me, help me!”  
Ultraviolet begins on the wings of that snippet. And I’m blown away, seeing as it’s the best performance I have ever heard of this song. MacPhisto doesn’t change any words, which is a bit disappointing, but by the end my breath is completely gone and my knees are weak. I stagger back, not sure if I can face that much more emotion. With or Without You hits me like a punch in the gut, and I’m in tears when Love Is Blindness begins. In fact, it’s so bad that I have to leave, and steal away backstage in a corner where no one can find me. However, I can still hear the painful music.  
       By the end of the show, the whole crew is celebrating getting through the fourth leg of Zoo TV.  Marieke’s spirits are lifted, and instead of going to check on Bono after the show, she hurries off to join the rest of the group as they make for the aftertour party. Bono is nearly the last one to leave the stadium, though the party’s at his house. In the dressing room, he folds his clothes up with a sigh- _won’t be needing you for a while!_ With that he swings the door open on its hinges and freezes. Ali’s brown eyes stare back at him soulfully. On her hip is a small child, and holding onto her other hand is a toddler, looking at Bono with an eager expression. Jordan and Eve- he hasn’t seen them in forever.   
       “All three of my girls came out to the show tonight!” Bono exclaims, and takes his time crushing each of them in one. He worries a bit about Eve, the youngest, and if she was affected at all by the noise level. Ali explains that she was kept backstage by a woman who handled her well- “Morleigh Steinberg, she’s a great person.” Bono wonders who Morleigh handed Eve off to during her dance for Mysterious Ways, but only for a second- “I missed you _all,”_ he emphasizes, stepping back from his home-grown family.  
       “Yes, I’m sorry we couldn’t get here earlier,” Ali responds in a heartfelt way. “Love you…” She indulges in a kiss for only a few seconds, and pulls back to announce, “Jordan’s not done so well at her first U2 show.”  
       Bono glances down to his five year old daughter, smiling fondly at her yawns. “You’ll have plenty of time to see me tomorrow…” He scoops Jordan up. “… and tonight,” he says, addressing the last bit at Ali. She gives a stifled laugh. “Bono!”  
       “What?” he asks sincerely, setting Jordan back on the ground and stroking her hair. He can’t imagine something this adorable is a part of him. Ali hovers around the edges of Bono’s vision, and suddenly she’s all he can see. She takes her attention off Eve and plants a firm, lingering kiss on Bono’s mouth. Surprised, he kisses her back just as powerfully.  
       “I honestly did miss you.”  
       This confirmation and revelation that Ali has shared Bono’s feelings sends a strong emotion coursing through Bono, nearly knocking him down. He hugs her, neither of them wanting to let go yet, Jordan at their feet, Eve at their side, and tears of relief prick his closed eyelids. “I know how you felt…”  
       The afterparty- an end-of-tour party- takes place at Bono’s house. Despite myself, curiosity overcomes me. I can’t wait to see what Bono’s place looks like for myself. Weakening to this vice, I arrive at the blowout with Jack as a sort of date. We soon lose each other in the crowd of hundreds. I reflect with humor on the fact that the last thing I told him was a warning not to drink so much- “We don’t want too many people on this tour doing Larry, do we?” Jack had just rolled his eyes.  
         I prowl around the crowd, spying familiar faces- Morleigh, who though glued to Edge does manage to give me a smile and wave; Eric, who I studiously avoid, Bill, chatting with some of the more famous guests- including Salman Rushdie, who I am surprised to see here; he must really love U2- and the one I pretend not to notice until it’s too late. Bono.  
           He should rightfully be the guest of honor. It’s disappointing that my efforts to conceal my obvious affection for him- walking in a random direction, not hanging on Bono’s gaze for too long- have all been in vain. Bono is preoccupied with the many guests that flit and flow to his side, seeking attention- and of course, the one being who never leaves him, Ali. She’s chatting it up in her own polite way, that sly cat. I stare at the position of her hands in relation to Bono’s body, and turn my head away from the glow of her ring. If I want to talk to Bono, I had better sneak up when Ali isn’t looking.  
         It takes me a while, but I finally manage to plow through the guests and greet Bono for the first time of the night. “Hey.” He turns and sees me, but doesn’t see me. “Hey, Angel.” I work for conversation.  
       “Great show,” I tell Bono. “I loved the way you pulled off my speech.” He stares at my wrist, and I flip it behind my back. “In fact, the whole encore with MacPhisto was pretty emotional tonight.”  
       “When don’t you think it is?” Bono asks rhetorically, and leans over to say something to one of the guests on his right. He’s like a king holding court, and I am one of his unlucky subjects. Slowly, I begin to realize that I’m more of a serf than a queen, as Ali is.  
“Never,” I say, shaking myself from my reverie and trying to hold Bono’s attention. Our conversation falls flat with another word from a guest, and I feel cheated out of the moment. What happened to the time when nothing more than a song suggestion, a tight purple dress, or a well-written speech was all it took for Bono to acknowledge me? I glance at my competition on Bono’s right and back down at myself. I’ve got nothing she hasn’t got. _Just tell yourself that…_  
As more guests surge forward, ready to vie for Bono’s attention individually, I spy Larry making his way through the crowd. He’s towing Adam and Edge along, who in turn are being followed by their dates- Naomi and Morleigh, respectively. The first thing that registers is that Larry is smiling mile wide. The second thing I notice is a blond woman with sandy hair and a prominent nose, leading the way with a smile that makes her seem beautiful among the plainness of the rest of her features. Observing the way Larry is holding her hand, I figure it must be Ann.  
         “Bono.” Larry and his entourage have stopped at the king’s side, pushing me out of the way. Bono glances up, smiling, answering Larry ‘s call. Larry wraps his arm around Ann’s shoulders. “I have barely gotten a chance to talk to you all day! Ann and I have some big news to share with you.”  
       My heart skips a beat, and my body grows cold. The ringing in my ears drowns out Larry’s pronouncement, but I can read the shock and excitement on Bono’s face as he and the other band members rally around Larry, hugging and congratulating him. My mind fills in the words Larry spoke, those two words that change a couple’s life. I back off and back away and manage to get out as calmly as possible. For the first time, I wish I was back in Rotterdam.


	36. Country Feedback

     Sunlight leaks through the blinds into my room. I pull the covers over my head.

       As I walk downstairs, fully dressed, the first crewmen who spot me call “Happy birthday, Marieke!” I smile blandly and hope they don’t suggest a date. I’m barely into my first sip of orange juice before a tap on my shoulder startles me away.

         “Happy birthday, Marieke.” Jack holds out a package. I accept it and rip the wrapping off. Beneath it lies a box, which when opened reveals an obviously homemade pin with the words “BEST BASSIST ON TOUR” printed on the surface.

       “Thank you Jack,” I tell him, sticking it on, and reach out for an embrace. Jack laughs while shrugging me away. “But,” I continue, “I believe you’ve mistaken me for Adam.”

     “Can Adam run through the entire Zoo TV set in half an hour and not get bored?” Jack asks dryly. “Face it, Marieke, what the pin says is true. Even Stuart isn’t patient enough to do that. Now tell me…” He holds out an imaginary microphone in the form of a fist to my lips. “How do you feel about turning thirty?”

       “I feel younger than Bono,” I say, staring at Jack’s knuckles. “But I suppose that’s because I am.” At least there’s comfort in the fact that I’m one step closer to the man I love- Suddenly pain rips along my insides. Okay, let’s try to get that name from my mind…

       Jack, however, is unaware of my reaction. “How do you think Bono feels about your age?”

       “I don’t think he’s aware that today’s my birthday.”

     “How do you feel that this interview is being broadcast live, and Bono can hear you?”

       “Oh, really? On what network, the imaginary one?”

       “No, no! The Zoo TV network, of course.” Jack drops his hand-microphone. “How would you feel if I told you Bono’s having a surprise party for you?”

       I raise my eyebrow. “Then it wouldn’t be a surprise anymore.”

       We stare at each other levelly until Jack suddenly cringes in embarrassment. “Oh no, now I’ve done it…”

       “There is a party?” I ask skeptically.

     “No. No party. What makes you think there’d be a party?” Jack is studying his cuff link.

       This is all too comical for me. “Cut it out, Jack, I know you’re lying. You’ve just spoiled a surprise, haven’t you?” I don’t say my thoughts- _Bono’s surprise-_ for fear of Jack correcting me. After last night, I don’t even want to think of Bono.

       “I guess I can’t keep secrets anymore, I’m sorry,” Jack sighs. “Promise you’ll pretend not to know about it, okay?” He doesn’t need to tell me. I’m very mixed about parties. On one level, I feel flattered that the crew would hold a birthday party especially for me- I’m no one special. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m the most beautiful woman on tour, or maybe it’s that I have the easiest job… but at least they thought of me. Jack for sure has a kind heart.

       On another level, however, I can’t stand being the center of attention. Every night I get worried about my speech not being received well, and when I danced onstage in Morleigh’s place the fear was high. The only times I haven’t been frightened in front of a crowd have been when I’ve danced with the Devil. And it was only MacPhisto’s arms that got me through it.

       And besides, no one would want to throw a party for me in my state today. I give Jack a goodbye wave and slink off to lie in bed for the rest of the day.

                                         ***

       Bono awakens to his wife’s stirring beneath his arm. He shrugs it off and she snuggles up next to him. Bono stares down at Ali, his heart throbbing, and presses her lips firmly into her hair.

       _I can’t believe it._

Bono glances dazedly around the room.

     _I made it home last night._

He remembers the huge party, and rubs the top of his head. Ali blinks her startling eyes. “Morning, Bono.”

       “Good morning, Ali,” he states, voice uncertain, breathing heavy. “I love you,” Bono tacks on, suddenly overcome. He fastens his lips to hers again.

       Ali speaks first after that interlude. “That was some party, huh?”

     Bono laughs. “Welcome to my world.”

       They lie in silence, and Bono revels in the fact that she is there next to him instead of off to get the girls out of bed, or, even worse, out the door on an errand.

       “Larry’s pretty happy, isn’t he?” Bono reflects, thinking about the news the drummer had given at the party.

       Ali nods. “I’m so proud of him and Ann. It must have taken a lot of courage for Larry to propose after all these years.”

       “Ha. Just cause they’re engaged now, doesn’t mean they’ll stay engaged. Wonder how long this is going to last!”

       Ali sits up in bed, staring sharply at Bono. “That’s not very considerate of you. Think about it from Ann’s perspective. All these years, she’s been in love with Larry. All she’s ever wanted to do is marry him. She was always ready to say yes. And if it makes Ann happy, then Larry’s bound to carry through with it.”

       Bono is surprised. He hasn’t thought that Ali would retaliate harshly. “But what about Larry?” he asks. “Lar never thought of marriage as a high proposition. It must have taken guts for him to do it- or someone convinced him that marriage _is_ that important.” Bono wonders what could have persuaded his stony friend so quickly.

       “Hmmm.” Ali considers this. “I think he’s finally realized what value it has, and how marriage can impact one’s life. Taken him ten years to figure it out, too. Thank goodness!” She sighs. Bono is not convinced. But before he can pursue the question further, Ali speaks the words Bono does not- absolutely does NOT- want to hear. “Time to get the girls up.”

       “Must you?” Bono sighs, kissing Ali again. She nods mischievously. “Come on, Bono, we’ve been asleep for hours. Time to begin the day.”

       “One more kiss?” Bono pleads. She laughs and indulges him. “Now, let me get dressed!” Ali insists when Bono won’t let her pull away.

       All alone, Bono rolls over on his side and thinks hard, back to the time of the party. He isn’t sure how many drinks he’d had, but a vague memory lurks beneath the surface of his brain-

       _“Hey!” Through the haze of alcohol and the steady stream of guests, Bono gives Jack a smile as he comes to socialize for a brief moment. “Bono! How you doin’ tonight?”_

_“Doing very well, thank you,” Bono answers, peering at his hands. “Do you want to sit down, Jack?”_

_“Yeah, thanks.” Jack sits down, leaning back in the chair. His eyes are glistening with drink. “So, Bono, I’ve had this proposition for you since the beginning of the night. Want to hear it?”_

_Bono observes how Jack’s faux Scottish accent has disappeared completely under the influence of other Irishmen. “Sure, mate, what’ve you got on your mind?”_

_Jack laughs, a bit too raucously. “Y’know, Marieke’s having a birthday tomorrow, and I thought, well, I thought we could all get together and have a party, ya know?”_

_To Bono’s drunken mind this sounds like the most splendidly thought out plan ever. “Of course! Let’s throw Marieke a surprise party. She deserves it, after all that writing she’s been doing!” He laughs. “Saves my ass every night, to have a script with me.”_

_“Where d’you want to hold it?” Jack asks, throwing his arm around Bono._

_“Hold it? Whaddya mean, hold it?”_

_“Where’s the party gonna take place, mate?”_

_“Oh.” Bono thinks. “Ali, is the house free tomorrow?”_

_“We aren’t going anywhere,” is Ali’s response._

_“Yay!” Bono turns back to Jack. “That’s brill. We’re going to throw Marieke a party at our house!”_

_Jack claps Bono on the back, standing up. “See you then! But I’m telling ya, don’t breathe a word of this to her?”_

_Bono laughs. “Why should I?”_

Ugh. Ugh, ugh, ugh.. All Bono wanted today was to spend some alone time with his family. Now he has to plan a surprise birthday party for Marieke as well. Bono has thought that the crew would go home as soon as the tour leg was over. It looks like that pesky Marieke will stay a while longer. Bono unconsciously hums a lost tune under his breath. He tries to rid his thoughts of Marieke. Once she’s in his mind, he can’t get her out. She’s like a pesky little gnat, leeching her way into his brain. Even the onstage wanting for her hasn’t been like this before.

       Bono heaves himself up from the bed and opens a drawer, trying to locate some clean clothes. He can hear Ali in the other room awakening their daughters. Bono’s heart beats strongly for her, and he longs to hold his wife in his arms again. After coming home to her last night, he can’t seem to be apart from her for more than a few moments.

       The same cannot be said for Marieke. Bono licks his lips, pulling on a shirt. He sees her face in his mind, but it comes with no feeling. She’s just… Marieke, and come to think of it, a really odd person at that. Bono flashes back to yesterday, when his shoulder was hurt. He’s beginning to suspect there might be something more behind her actions, something more to her crush on MacPhisto. Could it go further and extend to Bono?

     A small burble of laughter breaks Bono from his thoughts. Ali has peered around the door frame back into their room and found it funny that Bono has no pants on. “Get dressed, love!” she declares, shifting Eve to the side so she can hug Bono with her other arm. “We’ve got a _very_ uneventful day ahead.”

       Uneventful… Bono burns as he pulls on some pants, wondering if Ali will forgive him for what he’s about to tell her.

                                             ***

       My body feels heavy as a rock today. I only have enough energy to pull the sheets over me as I lie in bed, head spinning. My numbed mind can only think a few words- “Why?” “Love,” “Tired.”

       Finally my mind sorts out enough words to make a complete sentence and, eventually, a complete thought. I don’t know why I feel this way. It’s probably a mixture of coming down off the tour high and the snubbing Bono gave me last night… plus I’m still in shock about Larry’s news. Guilt weighs in my chest- I assume I was part of the decision for him to marry Ann in the first place.

       This leads to my mind falling back on one thing. _He doesn’t love me… He doesn’t love me… he doesn’t love me…_ I’ve tried to push the truth away from myself as best I can. Even after the night in London, that ugly moment of truth, I still ignored Ali’s existence. It’s one thing to see them together- it’s another to see them at their house, looking for all the world like a couple who has everything they could possibly want. I’m not included in their wishlist.

       And if I once thought I could possibly have a life with Larry if Bono rejected me- well, what happened in London is buried far beneath the surface of our conflicted hearts. Larry is engaged to his girlfriend, not caring for me anymore.

     My heart has been broken so hard, and I don’t think I can get up today. It’s enough to have to concentrate on breathing in and out without actually functioning as a human.

       I am finally dimly aroused by a knocking on my door. I force my iron head to turn and stare at the clock. It takes me several seconds before the number registers. It’s about lunchtime.

       The knocks become more defined, and I hear a man’s voice calling. “Marieke, are you in there?”

       His voice is familiar. It’s a smooth Irish accent that fills my whole body with vigor and life. BONO! Restored, I leap out of bed and crank the door open.

       “You want to go to lunch?” Jack asks me.

       My knees suddenly buckle, and I sway, nearly crashing to the floor before Jack catches hold of me. He hovers over me, worried. “Marieke, what’s wrong?”

       I shake my head, unsure if I can speak. Exhaustion washes over me again, and I curl up on the rug.

       “Hey now.” Jack brushes back my hair. “You’ve been crying? Take it easy, Marieke. What’s happened?”

       I gingerly pat my face, feeling indeed the stain of treacherous tears there. “He doesn’t love me.” The words come out dully, a bland, monotonous flavor.

       Jack helps support my head as I sit up and stand up once more. “Come on. Let’s get some food in you.” He takes me out into the hall, down to the lobby, and outside in the bright Dublin air.

       I don’t realize what’s going on until we’re in a restaurant, and Jack is ordering drinks for both of us. I stop him before he finishes the order and tell the waitress I want water, nothing alcoholic.

       Facing Jack, I ask, “What’s going on?”

       “You needed food,” Jack tells me. “Marieke, you’re in a pretty bad shape. No offense, but you look awful.”

       I nod, breathing heavily. “I thought you were Bono when you called for me in my room.”

     “Is that so?” Jack steeples his fingers and peers at me through unfathomable brown eyes.

       I nod. “Please… let’s not talk about him.”

       Jack stares out the window.

       I fully begin to explore the restaurant with my eyes- and notice it’s not a restaurant that Jack has taken me too, it’s a pub. To my amazement and slight horror, a karaoke machine is parked in one corner, turned on but all alone.

       My sigh as I spy it attracts Jack, who looks back at me- “Is something wrong?”

     “I wish I was back home, in Rotterdam,” I say. “The past days have been so stressful… I can’t wait to go home and relieve it all.” Although with a broken Lina at home, I doubt my time will be anything remotely close to relieving.

       “I know what you mean. Whenever I’m away from my home, I get pretty homesick.” I don’t want to correct Jack and tell him what I’m facing is not homesickness- it’s a longing for something simpler.

       The waitress sets our drinks down and waits for us to order a meal. I pick the first choice on the menu and stare again at the karaoke machine. When the waitress collects our menus, I ask her, “When is karaoke night?”

       The waitress glances over at the machine. “Oh, it was supposed to be last night, but we had no guests due to the U2 concert-“ she gives a little laugh- “ and we rescheduled it for tonight.”

     For the first time today, a spark goes off in my head. When the waitress leaves I tap Jack’s arm and tell him, “Want to go to karaoke night?”

       “What about your ‘surprise’ party?”

       “Screw the surprise party.” I don’t want to see Bono anyway. “It’s my birthday, and I say we’re doing karaoke tonight.”

       Jack shrugs. “Suit yourself. You’re just not going to see me singing anything up there.”

       “I bet we could work something out,” I say.

       “Only if I get drunk.” Jack laughs.

       We fall silent again. I am comfortable in Jack’s presence, but something is missing. Finally I decide to ignore the pain that flares up in me as I speak and say, “Neither of them love me.”

       Jack waits, peering inquisitively at me.

       I exhale. “I thought I could count on Larry, but- that news last night really shook me up. And without Bono’s love, I- I’m all alone. Fuck. I have no one to turn to!”

       “Let me guess- you didn’t _really_ talk it out with Larry,” Jack says.

       I shake my head. “He was the first one. I can’t feel absolutely _nothing_ for the first one.”

       “I know how you feel,” says Jack. “Marieke, you’re not alone. Just because I don’t love you, doesn’t mean you can’t turn to me. Why else would we be here?”

       I place my hand over his. “God, I’m sorry… I can’t fathom why you still put up with me.”

       “Who else is going to?” Jack asks.

       We wait on the waitress, and when she returns I am surprised to see a small cupcake with one candle stuck in it on my plate as well. The waitress whips out a lighter and, with a flourish, lights the candle. Her voice raises, and Jack joins in as I stare, mortified. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Marieke, happy birthday to you!”

       “Thanks,” I mutter to Jack after blowing out the candle.

       “You should thank me! That’s a free dessert right there!”

                                                ***

       Bono is playing with Jordan and Eve when the doorbell rings. Seeing as Ali has gone out, he gets up to answer it. To his surprise he finds Jack outside the door, nervously running his hands through his brown hair.

       “Hello?” Jack asks uncertainly.

       “Jack Stuart? What are you doing here?”

       “Um… I have news on Marieke’s birthday party. Can I come in?”

     Bono opens the door wide, and Jack deposits himself on Bono’s couch. “Hi there, little one,” he greets Jordan. “What’s your name?”

       “Jordan. Jordan Hewson,” she says proudly, revealing her white teeth. “This is my sister Eve.” She points to the smaller girl on the couch.

       “That’s nice. I’m Jack Stuart,” Jack says, holding out his palm.

       “Shake hands with Jack, Jordan,” Bono says as he closes the door. Jordan looks confused. Jack takes her hand, squeezes it, and draws back.

       “So, what is this about Marieke’s birthday party?” Marieke’s birthday party! Bono doesn’t want to hear those three words ever again.

       “Good, you remember! Well…” Jack pats a place on the sofa, and Jordan climbs onto it before Bono can make a move. “She wants to celebrate her birthday at the karaoke night in one of the pubs.”

       “Can’t you tell her to change her mind?” Bono asks, at the same time suddenly relieved that he may not have to host Marieke’s party after all.

       Jack shakes his head. “She’s the birthday girl. She does what she wants.”

       _“Who’s_ a birthday girl?” Jordan asks.

       Jack answers her question before Bono can. “A friend of your father’s, Marieke, is having a birthday party today. But we’re trying to surprise her, so we can’t talk in public about this.”

       “Oh.” Jordan considers that. “Why do you want to surprise her?”

       “Because parties are more fun when the birthday girl knows nothing about it,” Bono answers smoothly, to prevent Jack from speaking.

       “Then why didn’t you surprise _me?”_ Jordan asks, peering out at Bono with innocent blue eyes. Bono has no answer. He suddenly flashes back to the day he had turned thirty-three, the day Jordan had also turned five. He had been partying all day and night, and only stopped to think of his little girl at home for a brief moment when he gave her a telephone call.

       Of course, that was also the night he had contacted Marieke through MacPhisto…

     “Your daddy had to be on tour,” Jack answers, startling Bono back into the real world. “But he would have surely thrown you a surprise party if he’d had time.”

       “Oh.” Jordan sticks her thumb in her mouth. “Will you surprise me next time?”

       “I’ll try,” Bono tells his daughter, and then flows into the original subject- “What are you suggesting we do, Jack?”

       “Oh, I just came here to tell you that the party at your place is off,” Jack responds, playfully tousling Jordan’s hair. She giggles, all thoughts of surprise parties flying from her mind. “But if you want, you can come down to the pub and surprise her there.”

       Bono freezes. His mind runs through all ways of saying _no._ It all boils down to one thing, though- Marieke is having a birthday party, and she’ll probably be disappointed if Bono is a no-show. Even if the huge relief of having the party at his house is taken off his back, he still has to turn up to wish her a good one.

       “Yeh, sure, that’ll be great,” Bono tells Jack, rushing the words. He wants to get the whole affair over with as soon as possible.

       “Fabulous.” Jack is glowing. “Thanks, Bono. She’ll be so surprised.” He looks down at Jordan. “Well, I’d better be going now. Thank you for taking the time to talk with me.”

       “Bye-bye,” Jordan chirps as Jack stands up.

       “See you,” Bono tells Jack as he opens the door- and comes face-to-face with Ali.

       She’s carrying bags from her shopping endeavor and looks confused. “Hello?” she greets Jack, her eyebrows mushing together.

       “Oh, I was just leaving,” he tells Ali. “I’m one of the Zoo TV crew- we had a matter to discuss- bye.” With that Jack is out the door.

       Ali stands, hands on hips. “Bono, what was that about?”

     “Oh-“ Bono is suddenly embarrassed. “Em, well, someone on the crew-“

     “Daddy’s friend is having a birthday surprise party!” Jordan pipes up.

     Ali, looking even more bewildered, walks in and shuts the door while Bono is both grateful and angered by Jordan’s intrusion. _Shouldn’t it be time for a nap?_

“Who’s having a birthday party?”

       “Marieke,” Jordan blurts, mispronouncing the name, while Bono says, “Someone on the crew. We’re going to a pub tonight and surprising her.”

       Ali sets her bags down. “Marieke- she’s the one who writes the speeches, isn’t she?”

       “You got that right.” Bono wonders if he should ask permission to go out tonight. “Do you want to come?”

       “No.” Ali settles herself onto the couch. “Bono, this is strictly Zoo TV affair. You know how I feel about that.”

       Of course Bono knows how Ali feels about the Zoo TV Tour. She’s made no secret of it- what happens on tour, stays on tour. Bono feels that she would rather there be two Bonos- one who stays at home with her and the girls, and one who goes on tour and has a great time. Having to make do with what she has, Ali tends to think of her time without Bono as a dream, and with Bono off-tour as having finally woken up. She gets irritated when the two worlds mix.

       “All right. I’ll see you later tonight then.”

       “As long as you come back,” Ali murmurs.

      Bono figures now is the time to do some shopping of his own. Now, what would Marieke like to have more than anything in the world?

                                           ***

       Upon entering the pub at six with Jack on hand, I’m shocked to find that sitting in a corner is none other than Bono, Larry, Adam, Edge, and a few other Zoo crew members, including Morleigh, Bill, and- surprise surprise!- Eric. Adam’s brought Naomi along, but thankfully I don’t spy either Ann or Ali. I don’t think I’d be able to control myself around them. I’m not even sure what to say to this.

       “Jack… this was supposed to be a you and me thing!”

       “What can I say?” Jack shrugs. I feel Eric would be a much better prospect to hang around. Speaking of which- why the hell is he even here?!

       I take one step forward, and find myself locked in Bono’s blue gaze. He gives me a nervous sort of smile, and slips his dark shades back up his nose. “Surprise!”

       Now, this one word nearly brings me to tears. The whole group begins singing Happy Birthday for me, and I cling to Jack’s arm for my sanity.

       “You guys,” I manage to say when the song ends, “I didn’t want any attention.”

       Jack leads me over to the table, setting me in a seat right next to Bono. Very funny.

       “I don’t deserve this,” I tell him. “What have I ever done for U2 that others didn’t?”

       “You wrote those kick-ass speeches, Marieke,” Bono tells me, gentle in voice. “You and MacPhisto go hand in hand.”

       I look down at the table, intimidated and overwhelmed by those hidden eyes. “You wouldn’t do this for, say, Jack,” I murmur.

       “Who says I wouldn’t?” Bono leans in and pecks my cheek. “Hey now, ease up. It’s your birthday! How old are you today?”

     I appreciate Bono’s humor, though his kiss makes me want to scream, and answer teasingly, “That’s never a good question to ask a lady.”

       “Too late,” Larry speaks up. “It says on the cake.”

       “Good lord! There’s a cake?!”

       Everyone chuckles.

     “So, Marieke, what do you want to do first?” Jack asks me, catching my attention from his seat. “Karaoke? Cake? Dinner- well, of course we have to have cake after dinner,” he corrects himself. “Presents? Come on, what sounds appealing to you?”

       The last word piques my interest. “Presents?”

       “Okay then!” Jack leans back in his chair, relaxed. “Hit her up!” I am suddenly swamped with packages tossed into my lap. Eric doesn’t move, while Bono hurls one tiny box-shaped item at me- jewelry?

      “Thank you,” I sigh, staring down at my bounty. “Guys, this is too much!”

       “Go on! Open one!” Adam urges me. I laugh, rolling my eyes, and rip the paper off of his present first.

       “Hey, thanks!” I show my new bass strings and signed pick to the assemblage of crewmen. “Just what I needed to start my professional career!”

     “I notice it compliments your button quite well,” Adam points out, smirking.

       I point to Jack. “It was his gift!”

     I unwrap a few more presents, thanking each person warmly. A few, like Larry and Eric, haven’t bought me anything. Bill says that as a gift, he’ll interview me for the book- “don’t know why I haven’t done it yet.” I save Edge and Bono’s presents for last.

     “Here goes.” The square package yields a certain lovely pair of pants. “No way!” I gasp, lifting the bedazzled jeans out for all to see. “These are awesome!”

     “You’re welcome,” Edge smiles. “I remember your interest in them when you first joined the tour.”

     “And now for Bono’s…” I set the jeans aside, unable to wait to try them on, and peel the paper away from the small box. “Jewelry?” I voice my guess aloud.

       “You’re partly right,” says the giver of the gift. I open the box itself and lift out a tiny charm, perfect for dangling off my silver bracelet. The charm is shaped like an M. “For MacPhisto?”

     “No, for Marieke, silly.” Bono squeezes my arm, and I try not to look away from him.

       “If I knew you better I’d guess you’d give me an A for Angel of Holland.”

     “What would you give me- a P for Paul or a B for Bono?” He has no point there. Bono is always going to be Bono to me.

       I thank everyone again, and Jack runs to get a bag to put all the wrapping paper in. We settle down and order dinner. The same waitress who served Jack and I this afternoon comes around, looking shocked when she realizes I was one of the Zoo crew. We give her our demands and she hurries off.

       Some of our group have gone to the karaoke machine and taken over, driving away the other noisy guests. I notice that no one so far has sung U2. That all changes when Jack takes the microphone. He thumbs through the selections the pub offers, and sings a surprisingly beautiful version of I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For. I know he really hasn’t found what he’s looking for, and tell him seriously when the applause dies down that he should start a music career. Jack shakes his head.

       “It’s one thing to work for music makers- it’s another to be one yourself.” With that Jack flips through the selection again- “No U2!” some disgruntled guests shout. “I just went to the concert yesterday!”- and ends his short stint as a singer by walking back frustratingly to the table- “They didn’t have Numb.”

       Bono is watching us with one eye, and hears Jack’s remark with the ear that Edge isn’t talking into. “Numb karaoke… there should really be a version of that,” he notes. I stand up and move to answer the karaoke machine’s tempting call. When viewing the selections of songs it has to offer, I sadly decide that none of the U2 songs really look like something I’d like to sing and not embarrass myself with. To my disappointment, it doesn’t have Fast Car on the machine either. I finally pick a song I’ve heard once or twice on the radio and gear up to sing that instead. At least it’s kind of in my range.

       “Do you know why your heart’s worth breaking? Do you know why your life’s worth leaving?” I turn towards the dinner group and belt out these lines with surprising gusto. “I’ll tell you that, I didn’t know to leave your heart in the dirt… and set it out for foxes to claw at and lie bleeding.” Yes. Yes, you did that to me, Bono. You left my heart in the dirt when you went to Ali, forgetting I even existed.

       “You’re torn between the doubt and lust and scales tip from my favor…I had to untangle you before you put out my fever.” No. No, that is no excuse for the heartbreak you caused me, Bono. You weren’t in love anyway. I shake my head as I sing the next line, causing my curly hair to fall into my face. “You think you’re sad, but none of that, it’s not worth crying ‘bout. A week from me and then you’ll see the life you always had.” Maybe… well, maybe that’s true. I could be over-dramaticizing things like I sometimes do. But my resolve hardens on the next line. “Do you know why your heart’s worth breaking? Do you know why your life’s worth leaving? Don’t tough it out, we’ll catch you in the end.”

       The music speeds on without me, and I put down the microphone to the sound of applause. “That’s all I know,” I mutter, sitting down again.

       “That sounded real,” Bono observes. “Like you’d really had your heart broken.” I hold myself back from slapping him across the face. Of course I’ve had my heart broken. He wrought it on me.

     The other crew members partake in karaoke. To the groans of the diners, they all choose to sing U2. Larry, Adam, Edge, and Bono decide to go up as a group and sing, but they can’t choose which song.

       “Bono, I’ve heard you do a great U2 karaoke,” Adam tells him.

       “Hell, I do a great karaoke period!” Bono cries, taking up the mic. “If you want to sing some U2, Adam, go for it.”

       Adam wrestles the microphone from Bono and requests Sunday Bloody Sunday. After the first few lines, it’s not only the diners that are groaning. “Adam, you sing _awfully,”_ Larry says, not afraid of being blunt. “Marieke did better than that.”

       “Is that a compliment to me?” I call. “Or an insult to Adam?”

       “Great, now there’s two things she can do better than me,” Adam grumbles. Edge takes the microphone from him.

       “And the battle’s just begun… there’s many lost but tell me, who has won?” Edge’s singing voice isn’t that bad. It’s soft and very similar to Bono’s, but definitely a welcome change from Adam. “The trench is dug within our hearts, and mothers, children, brothers, sisters torn apart!”

       “Sunday, bloody Sunday!” Bono, Adam, and Larry sing together into Edge’s mic. Edge laughs, and they turn away, abandoning the words on the screen. I clap politely when that group effort is over.

       “Now Bono, let’s have a go at that!” Adam shouts, shoving the microphone in his face. Bono takes it kindly and turns his back to look at the selective songs. “Hmm…”

       Soft jazzy instrumentals drift across the pub. “Oh great, he’s chosen Sinatra,” Larry laughs. Bono fondly rolls his eyes, knowing that Larry knows who the song is really by.

       “Well it’s a marvelous night for a moondance, with the stars up above in your eyes… a fantabulous night to make romance ‘neath the cover of October skies.” Bono croons out the lyrics of Van Morrison’s hit, not knowing how handsome he sounds. I sit up straighter in my chair, taking notice. Jack’s hand, resting on my arm, restrains me from jumping up and singing along. A great Irish musician singing a song by another great Irish musician- how fitting!

       “And all the night’s magic seems to whisper and hush… and all the soft moonlight seems to shine on your blush… Can IIII just _have_ one-a more moondance-a with yoooooou, my love?” Bono whines, eyes falling closed. He couldn’t be begging any harder if he was on his knees.

       “Don’t mind if I do,” I murmur, making a move to rise.

       _“Marieke-!”_ Jack hisses.

     “Can IIII just make some more _romance_ with yoooou?” Bono growls. “My love!” Typical of his singing style, Bono’s voice turns into a shout on the last word, and his eyes snap open, catching me with his intense stare. He sings the rest of it looking straight at me- I can feel his eyes burn through the sunglasses over his face. As the song draws to a close, Bono heads over to the table. I silently plead that he’s not coming over to me, and close my eyes.

       “Can I-“ Someone’s breath is tickling my neck. I open my eyes and find Bono inches away from me, shadeless and breathing hard. “Just have…” He slides his hand over my leg and takes hold of my own hand. “One more…” He’s leaning in. I can’t move. _Please, please, please._ My breath is slowing.

     “Moondance with you?” Bono suddenly presses his lips to my forehead, sighing as he does so. The sound is audible in the microphone.

       Bono pulls back and grins. “Myyyyyy love,” he finishes, using his God-given falsetto. I touch my face, feeling weary. Everyone starts up with “Ooooh!”

       “Was that a birthday kiss?” I ask Bono.

     “Yes. You needed one!” With that Bono dances off to put his microphone up. I slump against the table. If anyone looked at me it would be obvious. I love Bono and I’m not afraid of showing it. But no one decides to look at me.

       “I’m… going to the bathroom,” I tell Jack, and stand up. Jack murmurs something neutral, looking blissed out, and I stroll up to the bar and ask where the restrooms are. I get directed down a hall, and enter the door marked WOMEN.

       Inside I have to just stare at myself in the mirror and think. Was there any reason out there for Bono to kiss me? Last night he would barely glance my way. Does this one gesture mean the tides are turning in my favor, or is it just Bono being a flirt?

       Once I exit the restroom, it is by far no small surprise to find Eric outside the door, just standing against the wall. His green eyes flick onto me, and I see no pain, no anger, just… certainty in his expression.

       “Hi,” Eric says quietly

       I can’t take it anymore, and approach him. “Eric. What do you want?”

       “I wanted to say…” Eric takes a breath. “I’m sorry, Marieke. For… well, for being such a douche, first off.” He sighs. “That night in London… I’m so, so sorry about that. I didn’t mean to let my emotions get out of hand. And the day after- I had no right to hold a grudge against you. You broke my heart, but it’s mended now. I just wanted you to know that… I’ll try not to be such a jerk from now on. And- and if you want me, I’ll still say yes, but I know you don’t want to see me ever again, which is fine too. I can live with that.”

     Well. Whatever next? First Bono shows signs of loving me, and then Eric apologizes for all his actions during the tour? If I walk back out will I see Larry and Jack making out or something?

       I lift my eyes back to Eric, who is looking content. “Well… well, Eric, I’m dumbfounded. I don’t know what to say…”

     “Thank you?” he offers.

       I throw my arms around him. “Yes. Thank you.”

     But though the action appears warm, inwardly I’m still furious at him. Does Eric even know what he did to me that night- that the kiss caused a chain reaction that led to Larry deflowering me? Those are memories that I’ll never be able to lose, actions that I can’t erase. The more I think about it, the angrier I become.

       Eric pulls away. “I guess you can say this is my birthday present to you.” He chuckles softly, once.

     “I…” Suddenly my lips are on his, kissing him furiously, letting all my anger leak out onto his body, anger that he can no doubt feel in the curve of my spine and the intensity of my tongue. I turn Eric around so his back is facing the opening of the hall and bite down on his lip, causing him to moan through my mouth and run his tongue over the hurt spot. I start to slide, dragging him to the ground, and Eric presses himself to me and kisses me as if he’s never going to kiss me again- which, I suppose, he isn’t going to do. A figure blots out the light of the opening, and I freeze, letting Eric pull me down to the ground. A second later, I shoot up and race to the figure, latching onto his leather jacket while Eric stands too and brushes himself off.

     “Bono-“ I cry. Bono wraps one arm around me. “What is it, Marieke?”

     I step away from Bono and point one trembling finger at Eric. “THAT MAN-“ Thankfully my voice doesn’t shiver as well. “THAT MAN tried to kiss me just now. _Just now!_ He wanted me to lose my virginity!”

     “WHAT?!” Eric is utterly stupefied. “I never did that! You tried kissing _me!”_

“LIAR!” I shout, dropping my hand. “Oh God-“ It’s not too hard to bring the angry and exhausted tears to my eyes. “That’s a complete lie! You assaulted me!”

     “Hush.” Bono sounds exasperated. “Stop crying, Marieke. Eric, you come outside with me.”

     “What?” Eric splutters again. “I did nothing!”

   “Don’t you try to cover it up!” I choke. “You dirty little-“

     “Marieke, that’s quite enough,” Bono says. “Come on, Eric.” Eric shoots me a glare that I counter with a scornful head turn. That does it- I absolutely hate Eric.

     Returning to the light of the pub, my dinner group is subdued to see the birthday girl with tears smeared on her cheeks. I hope no one will decide to sing It’s My Party at the karaoke machine, and go over to the window. Jack follows me, staying back a ways. Outside, I can see Bono and Eric arguing. Eric is yelling, gesturing wildly, while Bono stands back, his arms crossed in front of Eric. Only once do I see him come alive- towards the very end of their apparent conversation, when he suddenly opens his mouth and starts spewing out words, words that I can’t hear but seem to be striking Eric hard, for he doesn’t retort, but instead lets his shoulders slump and his head droop. Bono turns and stalks back into the pub, heading over to me.

     “Marieke.” His voice is tired, and he smoothes back his black hair. “Marieke, did you kiss Eric first?”

     “NO,” I answer, vile in my voice. “NO. I hate him. Bono, he tried to have sex with me.”

     “Alright, that’s enough,” Bono sighs. He removes his shades. “I knew Eric had a crush on you, I just didn’t think it would come to this. I’m sorry you had to experience this, Marieke. Eric is getting ready to leave the tour.”

       My heart falls to my stomach. “He is?”

     “Yes,” Bono murmurs, confused. I turn around, still shaking. “I have to- say goodbye,” I whisper, and leave the protection of Jack and Bono and open the door to go outside.

     Eric is standing out under the streetlight, looking about as awful as I feel. When he sees me, his head snaps up, tears glistening on his face. “And what are you doing here?” he snarls, directing all his fury at me.

     “Eric…” I hold out my hand. “I didn’t know I would get you fired. Can we leave on better terms?”

     Eric shrinks back, and spits out the words. “Marieke, ruining my love life wasn’t enough for you. You had to go and ruin the rest of my life too. I can’t go back to America… I can’t do this anymore.” He drags both hands down his face, shuddering. “Great God, Marieke, you’ve broken me. _I can’t DO this anymore!”_ He spins around and kicks the streetlight post.

     “Goodbye,” I say, unable to hear myself.

     “Good riddance!” Eric turns back to me and pelts away. He’s out of my sight in seconds.

     Back inside the pub, Jack is pushed away as I seek only one man’s arms. He’s a bit startled when I turn up, but I don’t care and press myself against him, fresh tears running down my face. Bono holds me in a loose embrace as I push my face into his shoulder, and establishes a gentle rocking motion to calm me down. “I love you,” I whisper in Dutch, several times. Jack gives me a warning look. The whole pub seems to be staring at our table. Finally Bono lets go of me and, stroking my hair, tells me that enough is enough. “Do you want to go back to the hotel?”

     I think. Surely Eric will be there. “No, let’s have some cake,” I say, attempting a smile. The table seems to sigh collectively. Bono signals the waitress, and she brings out a chocolate iced chocolate cake, with the words HAPPY 30 YEARS MARIEKE written in red gel.

     “My handiwork,” Jack beams.

     I thank everyone again as they sing Happy Birthday, and before blowing out the candles I wish the only thing that I can wish at this moment. _I wish Bono would fall in love with me._ They’ve told me about “mixed signals” from men in the past, but this is really pushing it.

       The party ends at the stroke of midnight, and I wait for everyone to disperse before leaving myself. Jack says he wants to stay behind and help the staff clean up, though he doesn’t work there. I stroll along under the streetlights, bathed in their glow. _Let’s go to the overground…_

A man is walking in front of me, his build and swagger unmistakable. My heart beats. A few hours before this party I didn’t want to see Bono’s face ever again, but tonight’s behavior has given me new hope. I pray he hasn’t been leading me on, and catch up to Bono’s stride.

       “Hey,” I say, breaking the silence, a car horn punctuating my words. “What’s up?”

       “Hey, Angel. I’m just getting home.” Bono breathes deeper, the street lights reflecting off his sunglasses. I lie in wait, ready to spring.

       Before he can turn a corner and split off from me, I say, “You didn’t give me a proper birthday kiss.”

       Bono stops in his tracks. “What?”

       I can’t see his eyes. There’s no way to tell if the glassy stare of a drunk man is in them, or if he’s sober and in control. The voice is no indicator. I plow ahead, “You kissed my forehead in the pub-“ I try to make my voice sound as coy and cheeky as possible. “Could you give me one right here?” I point to my lips.

       Bono stares, and finally gives in- “What the hell, it’s your birthday.” He leans into me, pressing his lips to my own. The contact brings a wave of tingles across my body. Our first touch in Bologna can’t compare now. I wait for him to pull back. It should end now, though I don’t want it to.

       But something is off. Bono leaves his mouth against mine, not even moving his lips, just covering my breathing passage with them. I can’t think. Should I do something- remind Bono that this is supposed to be an innocent kiss, or just indulge in the touch? Finally I make up my mind to let it last, and kiss him back gently, my arms winding around his back.

       And Bono breaks away from me, staggering back, his shades falling to give me a sense of the eyes behind, which are wide with shock. His mouth hangs open, but he jerks it shut immediately and sticks his hands in his pockets. “Em. That was… Sorry, Marieke.”

       Sorry? He shouldn’t be apologizing- I was the one who asked for it, after all. My breath is coming back to me in slow pants. “That’s… that’s okay,” I breathe. “I-“ Bono is still backing away. I wave my hand. “I should go now.”

       When I get back to the hotel I find no sign of Eric. That kissing ploy really worked- Bono didn’t want anyone laying a hand on me. _Except himself…_ Is that still too much to hope for?

       Before getting home, Bono stops on the sidewalk and covers his face with his hands. Had he really just _kissed_ Marieke? What was he thinking? What was _she_ thinking? _Oh, holy hell. Marieke, I want you tonight._


	37. I Missed You

          Eating breakfast in the lobby downstairs for one last time, I discover that what I’ve speculated since last night is true- Eric really has left the tour, there being no sign of him down here or anywhere else. I couldn’t care less. Jack is now my sole partner in the Zoo world. Together, we check out of the hotel in Dublin, even as it tugs me with a wanting to stay, and head on down to the airport to catch our respective planes. A flight to Scotland is leaving a few hours after a flight to Holland. I kiss Jack’s cheek and tell him I’ll see him later- I’ve taken to using that as a parting instead of goodbye. Jack wraps his arms around me a little awkwardly and tells me the same. We exchange phone numbers so we can remain in touch off tour.

       After a long flight- and a long sleep- my heart swells as the words “Welcome to Rotterdam” are voiced over the speakers of the plane. I’ve waited for this for so long. The tall buildings of my city scrape the air as we swoop down on a runway, and at once I’m on Dutch soil again. I can barely wait to get off the plane. LINA!

     I step off and hurry down into the airport terminal. Many of the other people on the plane run to their loved one’s arms, but to my surprise there’s no one to greet me. No Lina… I’ve called her this morning, telling her when I’m coming home. Maybe she didn’t listen to the answering machine. I would at least expect Herman, but he’s not here either. I silently collect my luggage and clear out.

     Outside on the streets, I hail a taxi. It pulls over to the sidewalk, and I climb in, thanking the driver. He looks at me, confused. I fold my legs and tell him the address I want to go to while buckling in my seatbelt.

       “Neem me niet kwalijk, miss- WAT?!”

     Oh. I suddenly feel very stupid, and repeat the address in Dutch, my _native language_. The driver sighs and pulls away from the curb. I’ve been away for longer than I thought.

     Once the street signs get familiar, my heart does another salmon-leap. I almost tell the driver to stop, I can walk from here. That is a beautiful feeling- to recognize my own surroundings! The driver stops at the flats and I toss some money his way, florins this time instead of pounds. My, how I’ve missed even our own currencies!

       I walk up the stairs up to our flat and unlock the door with my key, which I’ve had in my pocket since I left Dublin. Already this feels like a hotel. The smell of our flat drifts out into the hall, and I welcome it with open arms, closing the door behind me.

     Everything is not as I left it. The room is less orderly, with clothes strewn about on the floor, telling me where Lina dresses every morning. The record cabinet is open, and, glancing inside, I discover none out of place, but with a new addition- Zooropa, on CD. I pull it out and stare at the psychedelic cover, which my vinyl clearly lacks. I take the CD up in my hands and drift over to the table, which still has a mug and plate set out from presumably earlier this morning. There’s a note on a Post-It stuck to the plate as well.

       _Marieke, I am at work. See you when I come back. L._

Hm. I glance at the clock. She’d still be at work now, which would account for her not showing up at the airport. I put the plate and mug in the sink and wash them, along with the other dirty dishes. After that I put all the dirty clothes in an orderly pile to the side and make the bed, which reveals a rough sleep pattern for Lina- wrinkles and folds and sheets all bunched up. I grow guilty- she’s been worried sick about me. Did I really not call my best friend for that long? I plunge my face into the pillow, recalling the scent of her.

       After cleaning the flat, I have nothing else to do but wait for Lina to come home. I turn on the TV and watch for a bit, flipping channels. Eventually it sends me to sleep. When my eyes next open. I’m comfortably squished on the sofa, bits of hair falling in my eyes. I sit up and stretch out, brushing my curls back, and glance at the clock. Twenty-thirty? Really? It’s way past dinnertime- and past the time when Lina’s job lets out. She should have been home an hour ago. I scratch my head, wondering where she is, but shrug. Time to go out to eat!

       As I set one foot outside my door, a purse in one hand, I suddenly remember that this is my home. We have plenty of food in the refrigerator. I peek inside and make myself some pasta, heating it up from apparently the night before. Throughout dinner, Lina still refuses to make an appearance. I drink some water and wash the dirtied plate and cup, and go over to the bed to read the booklet in Zooropa’s CD. Oh, so those were the words to Dirty Day? I never knew that before!

       After thoroughly poring over Zooropa- some might call the bright colors an eyesore, but they’re beautiful to me- I go and get the CD player and plug it in. I’ve missed my U2 music- only Zooropa and live performances have sustained me. I place Achtung Baby in the CD player and close in its spinning. Zoo Station drifts across the room, and I frown. This isn’t how I remembered the mindblowingly fantastic Achtung Baby. Where is the mindblowing fantastic-ness?

       I listen to the album once through, and don’t hear anything remarkable in it. The music is flat and dead, whereas in the past it was the best thing I’d ever heard. I think about live performances of the Achtung Baby songs, how I’ve gotten so used to hearing them played night after night. There lies the problem- U2 is so much better live than in the studio that I’ve become bored with the studio albums after hearing their live selves for so long. I glance at the clock. Twenty-fifty-five. Now what am I supposed to do? I sit down on the couch and flip the TV on again. Our little flat has cable, so I turn to MTV.

       To my great surprise, U2 is on the TV- well, not every member, but Edge is doing a live performance of Numb! I suddenly realize that I’m watching the MTV Music Video Awards. What _is_ that blue uniform he’s wearing? I giggle, imagining Edge close up in the clothing. The song pulls me back deeply into my tour-minded self- the Marieke that wrote speeches, played the bass, and loved Bono… As far as I know, I’m still that girl. An image of Bono appears on the screens behind Edge- so very Zoo-esque! I like it- and my thoughts are instantly transported to _He kissed me as a sober man. He knew what he was doing. He kissed me because he wanted to…_ The performance ends, and I clap soundlessly.

       By this time I figure it’s best to get ready for bed. Lina apparently won’t be home for a while, though I have no idea where in the world she could be. I fall asleep to nothing- no music, no city noises, no flat-mate chatter- and my sleep is equally undisturbed.

                                               ***

       Early morning, Bono arises from his bed in Eze and, trying not to wake Ali, dresses to go out. The jet lag from flying to France from Dublin has evaporated, but Bono is disoriented. He has bought the house a while ago, looking for a refuge where he and Edge, who lives in another part of the house, could get away. Ali and the kids live here part time as well. Once the tour ended, Bono has gone to take a vacation in fixing up the mansion, and though Ali has just gotten back from her own holiday, she agreed to accompany him on the flight here.

      Bono tiptoes down the stairs, places his Fly glasses over his eyes, and opens the front door. Ocean waves crash along the nearby shore, and Bono strolls down the sand, making footprints. He stares at the rosy sun.

       _Good morning,_ Bono thinks, and his lips turn up in a smile. He glances to the beach homes that line the shore. Bono hasn’t gotten acquainted with anyone here in France yet. He knows that a few other celebrities live in the houses, even next door, but Bono is a bit reluctant to meet them. He plods down the shore, warming his back in the early morning sun.

       And it hits him again, just as it has for the past day- _Marieke and I have crossed the line._ Bono pulls his arms around himself, though it’s by no means cold up here. That one kiss could mean so much more than just a “birthday gift.” Why hadn’t Bono wanted it to end?

       A lone figure stands a few feet away from Bono, the wind ruffling his curls. Bono glances around, figuring now would be a good time to meet the folks next door, and calls out, “Hullo.” The figure turns and waves in Bono’s direction. “Hey,” he calls back, an Australian accent riding the wind and piercing Bono’s eardrums. He begins to think he knows this man.

       Bono draws closer, extending a hand. “It’s the new neighbor- I’ve only moved in this year,” he explains. “I’m Bono.”

       The man takes the offered hand and pumps it up and down. “I’m Michael Hutchence. Have you heard the one about you?”

       Mystified, Bono shakes his head. “What about me?”

       Michael steps back and cocks his head. “So a young musician dies and goes to musical Heaven. St. Peter shows him all the rock stars up there- Elvis, John Lennon, and the like. Right smack dab in the middle in a man with dark shades and leather. He’s blathering on about all kinds of political issues and the state of the world. The man is shocked- ‘I didn’t know Bono was dead!’ And St. Peter replies, ‘Nope, that’s God. He only thinks he’s Bono!’”

       The real Bono is taken aback. As Michael chuckles, Bono blurts, “Is this a popular joke?”

       Michael shrugs. “You could say it’s gone viral.” Which inspires a feeling of horror in Bono. He’s always heard there were jokes being made about him, but he’s never cared to learn them personally.

       “Hey, I’ve heard one about you as well,” Bono shoots back. “It says you’re a kind person.”

       “Ouch.” Michael winces in mock-pain. “Hey, no need to take offense, mate, it was a joke.”

       _A joke that people will be repeating to the day I die,_ Bono thinks. He isn’t too eager to meet any of the other celebrities in France now. But this Michael fellow gives a crooked smile that is somewhat endearing, so Bono surrenders to finish out the conversation.

                                       ***

             Someone’s hands are touching my body. I roll, swatting at the hands, my mind transforming them into Bono’s. I stretch out on my back and reach, ready to kiss him- and find myself staring into someone’s _green_ eyes. Not blue. Blonde hair falls in my face.

       “Hey.” The owner of the eyes and hair is speaking Dutch to me. “Wake up, sleepyhead.” I recognize her voice.

     “Hi,” I say, and suddenly- “LINA.” My arms fold around her, and we collide on the bed, hugging the living daylights out of each other.

       “You curled your hair!” she exclaims.

       “Yes…” I don’t know why she pointed that out. It feels almost natural to me by now.

       “Lina.” I pull back to look at her. “Are you alright?”

       Almost immediately I can tell she’s not. There’s a gaunt look around her eyes, as if from under-eating. Those sparkling green irises have dulled a bit, giving her entire face a bleaker look than I would care for. The locks of her hair that dangle down are greasy-looking, as if she hasn’t found enough time to wash it.

       “I’ve missed you so much, Marieke,” Lina exclaims, her voice breaking and eyes filling with tears. She looks away from me, frowning and blinking, and gets up to rummage around in the record cabinet. Soon the sound of A Sort of Homecoming is sprinting around the walls, and Lina takes her place once more by my side, the tears gone.

       “Come on, why don’t you get up?” She offers her hands and pulls me out of bed.

     “The Unforgettable Fire?” I question.

     “Yep. Cause you’re home now.” I watch Lina’s body carefully. No traces of anger or depression. She just seems very happy to have me back.

       “And you-“ Lina pulls the plug of the CD player. “-were listening to Achtung Baby last night.”

       I raise my hands. “Guilty, your honor.”

       Lina surveys the room, probably wondering how it’s gotten so clean, and motions me to go to the breakfast table. “Let’s eat. There’s room for one more.”

       I take my place at the table, full to bursting with Zoo TV news. “Lina, it’s been a magnificent time on tour! I got to meet all the members of U2, and they’re all so kind! I’ve attended every show every night and they’ve all been so amazing… I wish you could have been there.”

       Lina puts down her fork. “Yes,” she growls softly. “I wish I could have been there too.”

     Uh-oh.

       “Marieke, when you left me here in Rotterdam it wasn’t so bad- at first. I had a fine time without you. But then when you started calling me infrequently, I began to worry- were you okay? Why aren’t you calling me? Then when I finally did get a call from you, you didn’t give a damn about my feelings and thoughts! You just blabbered away about how great your new life was, barely letting me get a word in edgewise!” Lina takes a breath, and I think, _Ha, Edge_. “You spoiled Zooropa for me as well- you gave away the details of Stay and Numb, so it was no surprise at all. Then my life started breaking apart. I was so worried about you at times that I completely forgot about my work, and started showing up at the office unprepared. Herman let it slide at the first few offenses, but then he got angry with me, several times. I hate it when he’s like that! Honestly, Marieke, he tossed our whole relationship out the window when he acted like that. It was like I was some insignificant worker-“ I always knew Herman was bad for Lina, but I resist from gloating, instead letting her continue her rant.

       “You said you would send money, but I couldn’t exchange any of it in the banks in Rotterdam. It was all in pounds! Who was paying you? Don’t you answer that!” Lina shouts as I try to cut in with Bono’s name. “The bill was tough, Marieke. I spent an entire night working on a way to balance everything out. I was in a hole, basically, and just needed you back with your paying job and all. Your boss was harassing me day and night, reminding me about your holiday hours, and I was thinking _This is Marieke’s duty. She shouldn’t be shoving all this on me._ I couldn’t answer any of your calls because I knew you wouldn’t be serious at all, the way you never are… You never, ever, ever think, Marieke. You always put yourself and your pleasure before anything else. That is a fatal flaw! You never once thought of me in Rotterdam, and what kind of hell I might be going through! I had to call your parents to see if they were receiving the same treatment I was from you. And guess what? I was wrong. They weren’t going through my ordeal at all! You called them regularly! But no calls for Lina, eh? No calls for your best friend? Listen, I got-“

       “LINA!” I know exactly where she’s going, and I have to stop her rant. “What happened in ‘92 is something completely different. Back then I was the one going through hell, not you. You saved my life, Lina. Now it’s time for me to save yours.”

     “But have you been trying to do that?” Lina asks. “At least I didn’t leave you alone! At least I didn’t put myself first! You were in my mind all of the time. This is how you repay me?!”

     I shake my head as Lina puts her face in her hands. “Lina…” My voice fills with caring. “I’m so, so sorry, Lina,” I whisper, slipping over to her side of the table and placing my hands on her shoulders. “I’ll explain everything. Please forgive me.”

     We stay in our positions, Lina with her hair falling into her face, me with my hands on her shaking shoulders, one comforting, the other crying, as the song The Unforgettable Fire itself plays softly in the room. God, I haven’t heard it in ages. When the song ends, Lina lifts her head and breathes. “If you can explain it to me that _would_ be a damn good start,” she says, trying to wipe her tears without my noticing. I nod, knowing better than to ask Lina if she is okay- that would be suicide. Instead I sit down on the couch and beckon Lina over.

       “I’m sorry that you realized I was putting myself first. I was, in every sense. I’m sorry that I was such a jerk towards you, my best friend.” I realize I sound like Eric when he last spoke to me, and try to talk more freely. “Herman called me twice on tour. He was very worried about you. Apparently you broke up with him?”

     “I did,” Lina says, calm. “I couldn’t take his influence in my life anymore.”

       “But you let him make love to you first?”

     Lina ducks her head. “I was confused.”

       “If you were the one on tour, you would understand,” I say. “Living on Zoo TV brought 24 hour distraction. I had speeches on the mind, soundchecks to listen to- and most importantly, I was never, ever alone. I’m sorry, Lina, but after a while I forgot you even existed.”

      “Oh.” Lina looks as if she’s trying not to be offended. “What reminded you?”

     “Herman’s telephone call,” I say. “The first time he called me was to tell me of your low work productivity and possible depression. His next was to tell me that you had broken up with him. Both times I nearly got on a plane to Rotterdam. Both times I was stopped by the same thing. Do you know what that thing was?”

       Lina shakes her head. “What would have kept you from me?”

       “Bono,” I answer. “Lina, I’m in love with him.” Realizing that I’ve kept the confession from even my best friend, a chorus of shakes breaks across my skin.

       Lina sounds skeptical. “You’re in love with Bono.”

       “I know it sounds like every other female U2 fan since 1983- well, not you,” I say thinking of Lina’s intense crush on The Edge, “but spending time with him on tour has led me down this path. I hate my heart, Lina. I can’t break away from that man. And he’s perfectly oblivious to my affections.” Well, except for those few times- but I’ll keep that to myself.

       “He is?” Lina’s arms envelope me. “I’m so sorry for you.”

       “He seems to be.” I breathe in hard. “Sometimes there’s a glimmer of wanting, but mostly he appears unobservant. I’ve spent the last three months trying to win his affections, and failing every time. Bono doesn’t love me, Lina. He loves his wife, Ali. I’m so glad to be off tour. I need a break from all this.” But again the memory of last night rises in my brain. He kissed me… he kissed me…

      “How long are you going to be off tour?” Lina asks, uncertain.

       “I- I’m not sure.” My mind comes up blank. “Only until U2 goes to Australia.”

     “Well, that’s can’t be very long,” Lina says. “They aren’t going to have a three year long tour, are they?”

       I can’t answer that question. There’s no telling how many dates U2 has booked in Australia and New Zealand. Bad is on The Unforgettable Fire, and Lina listens intently. I wrap my arm around her.

       “I’m going to miss you when you leave,” she whispers.

     “I know. I will too.”

       We stay together on the couch until Bad ends, and Lina pecks my cheek and says, “Happy belated birthday.”

       I raise my eyebrow. “Don’t you have to work today?”

     A strange expression crosses Lina’s face, but she covers it quickly. “I took the day off to spend with you.”

       I laugh. “Oh, you silly girl.”

                                                 ***

       Edge sits on the front porch of his shared house in the South of France. He’s still getting used to living in such a spacious environment. He has been at the MTV Awards in America all of yesterday’s night, and is now exhausted from taking a flight straight to France to his holiday spot. Bono also flew out yesterday, and today has been absent since the morning, leading Ali to chat with Edge. Edge is amused that Ali’s not even remotely worried about Bono- in fact, barely even mentioning him in their talk. Edge himself suspects that if Bono is not around by lunchtime, they’d better go look for him.

       “Ahoy!” Speak of the Devil… Edge stands and gives Bono a big, sweeping wave. The singer laughs and runs through the sand, kicking it up with his heels. “Hey, Bono!” Ali dashes down, and the couple share a brief kiss. Edge looks away.

    Bono breaks free of his wife. “Hi, Reg,” he greets his friend, playfully swiping his black cap. “Hey!” Edge yelps. “That’s mine!” He chases Bono, and the two end up wrestling in the sand in attempts to get the hat back.

     Ali watches from the porch, laughing. “You two are such _boys.”_

“Not Adam and Larry,” Bono declares, mistaking ‘you two’ for ‘U2.’ “They’re big strong _men.”_ He stands up, brushing the sand from his pants, and tosses Edge the cap. “Here, you get to keep it.” Edge gives Bono a baleful stare and plunks his hat down on his head again.

       “Where’ve you been all day, anyway? It’s nearly lunchtime.”

       “Got caught up talking to a fellow I met down there,” Bono says, brushing his hair back. He turns and smiles before entering the house. Edge notices that Bono is wearing his Fly shades. Hmm.

     “Well, it’s nice to get to know the neighbors,” Ali says. _Getting to knoooow you,_ Edge thinks and just barely covers his snort. The sound does not pass Bono by, but he doesn’t comment. “Who was it?” Ali asks.

       “Michael Hutchence,” Bono answers. “The man from INXS.” Edge’s snort is audible now. Bono frowns. “Well, it’s true!” he retorts. “Odd bloke, but I like him. Now what’s for lunch, Ali?”

       “I… don’t know, I haven’t begun making it,” Ali answers.

       “I’ll assist you!”

       “No, no,” Ali laughs. “You’ve done enough in that department in your day, Bono.”

       Edge watches the couple for a few more moments, the way Bono sneaks up behind Ali and plays with her hair while she tries to cook. Finally, laughing once more, Ali gives in to the indulgent kiss.

       At that point Edge has to focus on something else. He’s had a real aversion to couples recently. Bono and Ali remind him too much of himself and his ex-wife, Aislinn, and the way things used to be. Never one to express his feelings, Edge still has a lot of unresolved angst to get through. Fortunately, he now has someone to help him with it permanently. Edge smiles to himself as he thinks of her and the great news that Sunday had brought.

       After a long while of making and preparing lunch- Ali has been distracted far enough- it’s finally time to eat. Bono settles down at the table as Ali goes off to get drinks.

       “Sooo!” Edge breathes, taking in the scent of lunch. “Have you heard the news?”

       Bono eyes his friend from beneath the glasses. “No, I haven’t, Edge, what news?”

       “Morleigh and I are going out,” Edge announces proudly, rubbing his hands together.

       Bono laughs. “Going out? Going out where?”

     “We’re _together_ now, Bono,” Edge sighs. “We’re an item. Ah fuck it- we’re a _couple.”_

Now Bono full out chuckles. “I know that, mate. And I’m very happy for you! Great news.” He leaps up and embraces Edge as Ali comes back with glasses in her hands.

       “Great, just what I wanted to come back to, my husband confessing his love for his best friend,” Ali states dryly, setting the glasses down in front of their respective owners.

       “Actually, no,” Bono says, pulling away from Edge. “That’s tomorrow. Today, Edge is telling us about his newest love interest.”

       “Who is not you?” Ali asks, taking a seat.

       “No, I told you, that’s tomorrow. Edge is dating Morleigh!”

     Ali looks a bit puzzled. “Morleigh?”

     “Morleigh Steinberg,” Edge clarifies. “The dancer on our tour.”

     “Oh!” Ali suddenly seems to remember. “The one who took care of Eve. Yes. She was nice. I’m so happy you have her in your life now!” Edge endures another hug, this time by Ali, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, everything will work out fine.

                                     ***

       Throughout my story of catching Lina up on what all went on during the Zoo TV Tour, she only stops me dead one time. “YOU HAD SEX WITH LARRY?!?!?!”

       “I had to,” I say, looking down. “I’m not proud of it. He was the only distraction my mock-drunk mind could come up with at the moment. His having a crush on me didn’t hurt a bit.”

       Lina is still staring at me. “I just can’t believe you had _sex_ with _Larry!_ You didn’t even like him that way! That was a total waste, Marieke.”

       “It wasn’t a _total_ waste,” I say. “It did feel good. And Larry was so mature during the morning after.”

       “Let me guess- you performed the walk of shame.” She sighs.

       “Not really,” I say. “No one was around. It was the run of shame.”

       We both laugh, until Lina sighs, clucking her tongue. “I can’t believe what you got yourself into.”

       “Me either,” I say, straightening out my hair. “I regret that night to the bottom of my soul- but you’ll never guess how I got revenge on Eric.”

       “How?” Lina asks, leaning in.

       Just now the phone rings.

       “I’ll get it!” Lina says, springing up. She answers the phone and, with a confused look, and hands it to me.

       “There’s someone on the other end who wants you.”

       I take the phone. “Hello?”

       “Hi!” Jack’s voice answers, speaking Dutch. “Well, I made it home to Scotland and wanted to see if you did too.”

       “I’m in Rotterdam,” I say. “Or did you mean that?”

       “I meant the generic ‘home’,” Jack tells me. “So… Marieke, do you mind if I call you at all during these next few days? It’s kind of hard to settle back in sometimes. Last night I freaked out because I couldn’t find my suitcase. I needed pajamas! I thought I was a goner! Then I remembered that all my clothes were safely installed in the dresser.”

       We both laugh, loud and hard, and I recount my tale of getting halfway out the door before I remembered there was food in the fridge.

       “It’s nice to hear from you,” I say. “You’re not usually like this.”

       “Oh, I’m not?”

       “No. It must be the change of scenery that’s brought out the verbose side of you.”

       Jack laughs. “The best thing about having you as a friend is that we can be verbose with two different languages!”

       “True,” I say in English. “But… are you sure it’s _just_ friends?” I can’t fathom why Jack would want to call me out of all the people he could be calling- Herman, for example.

     The question exasperates Jack. “I swear, Marieke. Honest to God, I have never had a crush on you.”

       “But you don’t believe in God,” I say.

       “Swear on my sock drawer, then. Which, by the way, contains no socks. I just wanted to see what you’re up to, that’s all.”

       “Mmmm. And what’s up with you tonight?”

       “I’m going to a bar to check out the laaaa-dies.” Jack laughs. “Ah, I love Scotland. You should come over sometime!”

       “Maybe not,” I say, unsure if I could spend that much time with off-tour Jack. “But thanks anyway.”

       We talk for a few more minutes and hang up.

       “Who was that?” Lina asks me, curled up on the couch.

       “Jack Stuart,” I say, pressing buttons on the answering machine. It’s cluttered with messages, all because Lina couldn’t bear to erase her Edge message from so long ago. I play them each in a row before Lina can stop me.

       _Lina? Lina if you’re there, please pick up the phone…_

_I’m only trying to help you, Lina. Please call me. My number is…_

_I’m coming back to Rotterdam today. Please call me back at this number…_

I stare at Lina. “You never once called me back!”

       “I… no, I didn’t.” She sighs. “It wasn’t my fault, Marieke. Those numbers you gave me were shit. No one ever answered the phone.”

       I think about that. “How often did you call?”

       “Well, after I decided I never wanted to see you again, I only called once to answer your last call, the one where you said you were coming back to Rotterdam. No one ever picked up the phone. I waited for days, but you never showed up here.”

       “Oh God,” I breathe. “Lina, I’m so sorry…”

       “Apology time is over,” says Lina stiffly. “I’m just glad you’re here right now. Now… can you finish the story?”

                                                       ***

       Adam wakes up home alone and in his underwear. He racks his brain for what he was doing before he fell asleep on the sofa- oh, right, cooling off after an argument with Naomi. They don’t fight very often, but when they do it’s brutal. Adam can’t even remember what the argument was about, but now Naomi’s gone off to do some business, leaving Adam all by his lonesome. He rubs his eyes and wishes to be elsewhere.

       There’s a bass in the corner of the room. Adam’s always had a bass in the house for as long as he’s lived. He hasn’t eyed it once today, but suddenly it’s all he can think about. Adam jumps up and cradles the bass in his arms, plucking softly at the strings.

       _Marieke and Stuart would be proud of me._ He will never admit it, but it had really rubbed Adam the wrong way when at her birthday party, everyone had been hailing Marieke as the best bassist on tour. The claim was always followed by a “No offense, Adam,” which Adam had shrugged off, but on the inside he was indeed offended. Marieke had taken lessons from Stuart, who is only Adam’s bass tech, and yet both of them know the instrument so much better than Adam himself does, the bass player in the actual band.

       _Maybe I should take lessons._ It’s an idea Adam’s been toying with ever since the release of Zooropa. He feels some of his finest bass work takes place on that album, yet with true lessons, it could be even better. Adam starts playing the bassline from Some Days Are Better Than Others. His fingers drum skillfully along the instrument, tapping out the tune to perfection. _If I can create a bassline this great, do I really need lessons?_

Adam switches over to the bassline for New Year’s Day and plays it thoughtfully. He doesn’t even need to pay attention to the chord changes anymore- his fingers know what to do. Adam frowns, puts his instrument down, and goes to staring out the window. He gazes down at his engagement ring and wishes Naomi would come back, if only for a few moments. What he did to make her mad, he doesn’t remember.

       It’s times like these that Adam begins to question his role in the band U2. It always seems to sneak up on him when he least expects it. He’s not sure what exactly it is that makes him different Bono, Edge, and Larry- maybe he’s a bit more outgoing, more accepting of the rock star lifestyle than the other three. Maybe it has to do with the fact that he has less experience. Maybe it’s because he’s not a Christian- but that problem was settled long ago. Whatever the reason, Adam can’t shake the fact that sometimes he doesn’t feel like he belongs in U2, or deserves to play bass at all.

       Tossing aside the thoughts that haunt him regularly, as he always does, Adam is jolted by the sound of the door opening. He stands up and opens his arms to receive Naomi, who climbs in securely, smileless but serene.

      “Where did you go?” Adam asks her, burying his mouth in her neck.

       “Downtown,” Naomi answers, giving him a look. “I strolled around the shops for a while.”

       “Ah, the shops,” Adam breathes. “I spent a year there one afternoon.”

       Naomi gives Adam a mischievous look. “So how old are you in shop years, then?”

       Adam doesn’t answer this playful joke and instead just embraces her tighter. _This time will be the last time that we fight like this._ He can’t repeat the thought aloud because he knows it’s a lie. Naomi is slipping farther from him every day, though as his fiancée, she should be getting closer. Adam wonders if Larry’s engagement is going in a similar fashion.

                                                     ***

       “What would you like for lunch?” Lina asks me as I help her set the table for two. It’s been so long that I’ve nearly forgot how to do it.

       “Oh, I’ll just take whatever you’ve got in the fridge.” The table set, I am the first one to sit down as Lina gets out some food.

       “What did you think of Zooropa?” I ask her as she fills my plate.

       Lina doesn’t miss a beat. “Zooropa was… odd. And I thought Achtung Baby was a departure! But this album is really interesting. You did spoil Stay for me…” She rolls her eyes. “Overall, I like it.”

       “Glad to hear it,” I say. “I think it’s my new favorite album.”

       We eat in silence for a bit, just relishing in our food. I haven’t had a real sit-down-at-home lunch in ages.

       “So… are you friends with Herman now or something?” Lina asks, leaning her fork against the plate. I laugh. “Not nearly! We’ve just been in touch because we’re both worried about you. Say, what’s it like walking into work every day with him there, anyway? I mean, now that you’ve broken up.”

       Lina blinks and looks to her left, strangely quiet. She sighs once. “Er, Marieke… it’s not quite like that.”

     “You’re still together?” I ask, confused.

     Lina shakes her head. “Definitely not. It’s just… well, to be honest I quit my job.”

     I stare. “Lina, what the hell?! How could you quit? We need the money!”

     “I couldn’t bear it,” Lina gasps, beginning to look nervous. “I couldn’t stand being in the same enclosed area as him. It was only a matter of days before he fired me, anyway. I took matters in my own hands.”

     I’m still shocked. “But Lina! You had every reason not to quit! Couldn’t you have just held on and upped the productivity a little?”

   Her clenched hands come crashing to the table. “Dammit, Marieke! It’s not as easy as ‘upping the productivity.’ Don’t you get it? If you wanted us to be rich you shouldn’t have quit your own job to begin with!”

     We sit there, staring at each other. I’m not sure what my face shows, but Lina looks angry, her eyes crumpled. I know she won’t talk to me for a while, so I pick up the fork and keep eating, sliding my gaze downwards. Finally Lina resumes her meal, and after I take a swallow I begin gently, “I’m sorry, Lina.”

       “Sorry doesn’t cut it, Marieke,” she tosses back.

     “What am I doing wrong here? Tell me, what is so wrong?”

     Lina rolls her eyes. “Oh god. Please say you didn’t seriously ask me- All I see is, you never help me out when I need you! Now we’re both going to be in debt after a few more weeks, and then you’ll leave me here again and…” She trails off, uncertain, but brings it back in with “Sometimes I wish I’d never met you!”

     “Wait,” I say, trying to stop the pain of the sentence that she’s hurled at me from taking over. “How can Herman fire his one secretary? He needs you, Lina.”

     “Well I sure as hell don’t need him!” she spits.

       “Lina…” My hands are flying to my face. I guess I’m not doing a very good job of covering my emotion. “I’m so sorry, all right? Please promise me you’ll look for a job as soon as possible.”

       Lina stares at me as if job-searching is a foreign concept. She stays silent, getting up from the table with her plate and walking over to the TV. I watch her intensely as she eats quietly, eyes fixed on the black screen.

     I push my face into my hands for a moment, but recover quickly. Lina’s pretending not to even notice me anymore. My sorrow and disappointment all at once gives way to fury. It’s hard enough to stay sitting still and not get up and slap Lina on the cheek. First she goes off at me this morning, then we make up, but now we’re fighting again. I sigh softly. Same old, same old.

       My plate is empty before me. I take it and dump it in the sink. Lina doesn’t move. Walking over behind the couch, I keep my eyes fixed on the back of Lina’s head as I lower myself down-

       “You can take the bed.”

       Ah, good. I sit down and cross my legs comfortably, a glimmer of hope in my mind that Lina will forgive me.

                                                 ***

       “You want me to get up now?” Larry asks, shifting his hand so that it caresses the back of Ann’s neck ever so gently.

       “No please stay,” she responds, her eyes distant.

      So far, being engaged really hasn’t changed anything in Larry and Ann’s relationship. They still have the same heartfelt conversations, get into the same good-natured debates, and hold hands as they walk around the house. Larry still respects Ann’s privacy when she needs it, and Ann understands Larry’s hatred of lovey dovey stuff and doesn’t force him into any statements. It’s only when they kiss that Larry can feel the difference- the couple’s lips move slower, more burningly across each other’s, and the taste is so much sweeter.

       “Do you mind?” is the one voice in the silence as Larry shifts his hand to slip beneath the back of his fiancee’s shirt.

       Her voice is filled with passion. “No, of course not.”

     Larry prides himself on getting to the state where he and girlfriend don’t even need to talk; they can just sit still in silence and understand each other perfectly. His eyes admire the shiny band wrapped around her finger.

     Last night was a blur of drinks and revelry, and Larry enjoyed the heck out of himself. He considers Marieke’s birthday party to be the true end-of-tour celebration. The friction between he and Marieke after their night together has been solved by the simplest solution- tying himself down to another woman. Ann is the most beautiful creature who constantly amazes Larry in her consistency to be herself, and who has been waiting for this chance for years. When he thinks too hard, Larry can get overwhelmed that this union was brought about after being disloyal to her, but again, there is simple solution- don’t try very hard to think. Better yet, don’t think at all.

     Sometimes, though, Larry will still wake up in a cold sweat, consumed by guilt in the fact that he cheated on his girlfriend for a woman who, in the morning, meant next to nothing to him. All there is to do is roll over, hug Ann, and pretend it was all a bad dream.

     Ann stirs under Larry’s fingers, and he pulls his hand out an inch. Last night when he’d come home from Marieke’s party, Ann had only said, “Did you enjoy yourself?” The answer had been yes, and Ann hadn’t inquired about the specifics. Larry considers himself blessed to have her. His mind wanders back to the occurrences at the party, what he could have told Ann if she’d only asked about it.

       The party for the most part had been a pleasant affair- all up to and until the last hour, where Marieke had run crying from the hallway leading to the bathrooms, following a displeased Bono and an irate Eric. The two of them had exited the pub immediately. Only Bono had reentered, and Marieke then had left. When she’d returned she clung to Bono and sobbed on his shoulder. Larry hadn’t been able to make heads or tails of what was going on, and asked Bono when the party was over what had happened between the three. Bono had leaned back a bit and explained that Eric had kissed Marieke without her consent and tried to go further, but Bono had shown up and taken him outside, where they argued.

       “He kept protesting that it wasn’t he who kissed Marieke, it was Marieke who had kissed him,” Bono had explained. “I wasn’t there so I wouldn’t know who’s telling the truth. All know is that we’ve lost a crew member tonight. He quit on the spot.”

       Marieke’s behavior certainly was not one to suggest that she was lying. Larry can’t remember her ever behaving in such a distraught way. But if Eric really had started it, why did he insist so vehemently that he hadn’t? Larry has brushed elbows with Eric a few times, and he knows he’s the type to own up to his mistakes. Was his job so important to him that he tried lying to preserve it? Larry does know that Eric hates his home and wouldn’t want to go back to America anytime soon. Maybe that was his reasoning. But why did he quit if he didn’t want to leave?

       _Now, let’s take a look at Marieke’s side…_ There is no embarrassment as Larry thinks of her now. If she’d been the one to kiss Eric, why did she act so upset later? It is possible that she was in shock. Then again, she also could have been sad that she’d accidentally caused Eric’s departure from the tour. But why didn’t she clear up the mistake? Larry realizes that Marieke never did love Eric, despite the ribbing from her fellow crew in Zoo. She wouldn’t have kissed Eric out of affection- so it is entirely possible that she did it to kick him off the tour- if she did kiss him at all.

       Whatever happened last night, Larry is determined to get to get to the bottom of it. That will only mean one thing- a talk with Marieke. Larry sighs uneasily and glances at Ann. She’s unmoved, lost in her own world. His blue eyes slide off of her and onto the wall in front of him. Marieke might not want to talk with Larry. She’s pretty much avoided him since their night in London. _Don’t think about that,_ Larry catches himself. _It never happened._

       Where exactly has she placed her affection this tour? It’s obvious to see that Eric was never Marieke’s concern, despite his growing appetite for her. The crewmen today might say Jack, and that’s quite plausible seeing as she hangs out with him all the time. However, Larry has never seen the two touch in public- not even holding hands. And there was the night he stayed up talking to Jack in a club in Bologna, when Jack had told Larry he was more interested in a man named… what was it? Hebert?- than he was in Marieke herself. Larry isn’t sure if his memory is faulty or if Jack was kidding around, but he can’t argue with that.

       Once it would have seemed that Marieke cared for Larry. But she had told him flat out in the morning that she didn’t love him.

       And, as Larry straightens himself up and readjusts his grip on Ann, it hits him so strongly that Larry realizes he was a fool to think otherwise. _Could it be_ _Bono?_ Being the drummer and an introvert, Larry has always been in the background, rarely getting attention. He’s chosen to keep away from the spotlight- that land is Bono’s territory. So it has to be his fault that he hasn’t noticed Marieke’s preference for the singer- her teasing with him, the way she hangs around him if there’s no one else, even her role of writing speeches that brings her so close to him. Larry can’t confirm his guesses- he’s never actually seen Marieke behave in a way that would outwardly suggest she has a crush on Bono- but he’s pretty sure he’s hit the nail on the head. If Marieke is in love with anyone she’s met on tour, it would have to be the one who doesn’t care for her in that way at all.

       Ann moves, slipping her hand onto Larry’s shoulder, which shakes him from his thoughts at last. “It’s getting late,” she notes. “I should start dinner.”

     “Wait for a second, will you please?” Ann obeys as Larry leans in and presses his lips to hers, humming softly through his nose. Ann responds and wraps her arm around his neck, opening her mouth. Larry slides his tongue along the edges of her lips before pulling away from his fiancee. Ann pats Larry’s arm, looking satisfied.

     “Now will you let me go?” Her voice has a hint of a laugh in it. Larry wants that voice to be his life.

     “Yes.” She weaves her way from the couch. Larry stands too after a bit, following his soon-to-be-wife.

                                             ***

     I can’t sleep at night, listening to Lina’s breathing. I can tell she’s awake like me. It’s been a long time since I had to share a room with anyone, and it’s scaring me a bit. I roll over onto my back. There is no window by the bed that I can lie next to and soothe myself in the moonlight. Lines from Achtung Baby will not stop running through my head. _We ate the food, we drank the wine…Don’t believe what you see…Gonna run to you, run to you, run to you…_

Lina will leave the room if I play Achtung Baby now. But I can’t get to sleep without the music, and it’s driving me crazy inside my head. I don’t feel tired at all. Checking the clock, I realize why- this is about three hours earlier than I usually drag myself into bed on tour, bone tired.

       Finally my eyelids begin to grow heavy. I let them fall shut and my lashes tickle my cheek. _The universe exploding cause of one’s man’s lie…_ It isn’t long before I hear Lina get up and walk to the bathroom. Alone, I can finally sleep in comfort.


	38. Chapter 38

             I am up with the sun this morning, but it takes me a while to realize it. Disoriented beneath my bedsheets, I curl up on my side and try not to blink my eyes open. Finally the warmth of the covers grows unbearable, and I surface, gasping for air and flicking my curls away. Glancing over at the couch, I find Lina is still asleep. The clock next to my bed reads 4:30. No wonder.

       Unable to sit still in bed, I untangle myself from the blankets, dress, and make breakfast for myself. Lina’s the real chef in our tandem, but I can whip up some pretty good eggs when the mood strikes me. The smell doesn’t wake Lina up, and neither does my muffled cursing when I drop an ingredient. After setting my steaming plate on the table, I go to the coffee maker and toss out all the leftover beans. Now that Lina lost her job, she doesn’t have to drink coffee if she despises it so much.

       Lina lost her job… I take a bite of eggs and try not to get too upset. Obviously, all the blame really can be hung on me. My pathetic excuses about the seductiveness of the tour mean nothing- I should have returned here and helped out a friend. However, a small part of me whispers that if Lina had been there, she would understand. Her compulsion to stay in the Zoo world would have been less, but it definitely would have been there. Even her level-headedness couldn’t have balanced out the fun.

       Really, the blame _could_ all be shoved on Bono, and no one could protest. If he hadn’t been there maybe I wouldn’t have felt such an allure to start with. Even now, as I think of him, a pang goes through me, hitting my stomach. I conjure up a memory of his face, shades off, blue eyes winking at me, and suddenly find it hard to concentrate on my breakfast. The ache of wanting Bono is soon replaced by missing- not a dissimilar emotion. If I were standing it would sweep me off my feet. I miss U2 and the entire Zoo experience so badly. How am I going to make these next few months last?

       Stretching out of my seat, I drop down to touch my toes and give Lina a glance again. She’s deep in rapid eye movement, snoring like a chainsaw. I straighten up, scrawl a note on a pad for her, slip on my shoes, and head out.

                                         ***

       After a few days of this- falling asleep without a tired bone in my body and waking up in the wee small hours of the morning- my madness abates and I adjust to my old sleep schedule- maybe even creating a new one, for now that I don’t work for anyone I can sleep whenever I want. Lina talks to me a little less every day, which befuddles me until I realize that she doesn’t want to hear any more about my tour life. Though incredibly exciting for her that first day, it now just brings irritance. I still try to bring up Bono when she isn’t expecting. At least Lina can somewhat tolerate talk about the band members.

_“What would you prefer to hear today- Achtung Baby, Zooropa, or The Unforgettable Fire?” Lina asks, thumbing through our music collection._

_“Which one is the odd one out?” I laugh. “Zooropa. It’s my favorite U2 album!”_

_“Really?” Lina laughs. “That’s what you said about Achtung Baby…”_

_“Yeah, well it is,” I insist. “I have it on vinyl. Bono gave it to me as a present.”_

_“Oh, did he?” Lina walks over to the CD player, trying to sound nonchalant. “That’s a special gift.”_

_“It is! First pressing, no less.”_

_Lina turns her head. “Is your bracelet from Bono also? Or did someone else decide to spoil you?”_

_I glance down at the silver accessory wrapped around my wrist, as I usually keep it. “Oh- no, I bought this myself soon after I joined the tour. I think it was in Spain.”_

_“And that charm just happened to come along with it?” Lina question, picking Zooropa out of its case._

_I shake my head. “Believe it or not, the charm actually was a present from Bono. He bought it for my birthday.”_

_Lina says nothing, but glances thoughtfully at my wrist and presses Play._

       Though Lina takes kindly to my bringing up Bono- and truthfully, there isn’t a moment when that damned man is far from my mind- she doesn’t heed the mentions of Eric, Larry, or, surprisingly, Jack. It takes me a moment to figure out that last one. Does she think there’s more between us than just friendship? Jack had called me on the day I got home, seemingly leaving suspicion in Lina’s mind- why would he be checking up on me as soon as I got settled in? And why does he have my phone number? I find it hard to believe that Lina would think of me as such a slut, but I guess having her best friend disappear for four months- honestly, four months? I thought it was a longer time than that- has changed her perspective on me.

       Which is why when I want to call Jack, I do it when Lina’s out of the house or, better yet, asleep. He’s always welcome to receive me, although most of the time he isn’t home when I call. I envision Jack out in a pub swinging with the men and women, and have a good laugh at that. The most important bit about calling Jack is that he’s still majorly connected to the tour, and updates me on everything.

       And that leads to my screeching one afternoon, as Lina grocery shops in Rotterdam- “THEY’RE REPLACING _ULTRAVIOLET?!”_

“Er, yeh, they’re considering it- Marieke! What _is_ the fuss?”

I drop myself onto Lina’s couch and run my fingers through my hair. “I’m sorry… I shouldn’t freak out on you, but… I just don’t think Ultraviolet can be adequately replaced.”

       “Why not?” Jack asks, true curiosity in his voice.

       I can’t take the time to explain the final quartet of songs that conclude the concert and showcase MacPhisto’s deep spiral into depression and out of it, so I say, “Ultraviolet is my favorite on Achtung Baby.”

       “Marieke, not everything is about you,” Jack points out gently.

       He’s right and I know it. Still, a part of me wants to continue arguing for U2 to keep Ultraviolet in the encore. “What are they replacing it with?”

       “Something from Zooropa that we haven’t played yet. Daddy’s Gonna Pay For Your Crashed Car has been considered, but Lemon is the highest candidate.”

        “They’re playing _Lemon_ live?” Numb was enough; as much as I love Lemon I can’t imagine another extremely long song in the live show. Especially during MacPhisto’s set! But then again, it would bring out his beautiful falsetto… perhaps it would sound better live than on the album. I have no problem with Daddy’s Gonna Pay For Your Crashed Car during the encores- it’s an evil song that I’ve always imagined MacPhisto singing. But U2 better be careful with their song choices, or they’ll end up with two encores!

       “Well, sure, they have to start playing Lemon some time- it’s been released it as a single and the video is slotted to be filmed tomorrow.”

       “What?” This is news to me. “Was Lemon released in the Netherlands?”

       “Actually, it was supposed to only be released in certain places, but we added it to the rest of the world because Zooropa needs more publicity.”

       Hm. I wonder if I’ll hear Lemon at all in my car or elsewhere in town. But back to the important question- “Why do U2 keep releasing their longest songs as singles?”

       Jack giggles, and so do I. “They’re shortened for the radio, Marieke, you know that they are. And Numb was only released on video format.” He pauses- “You should come out and observe the videoshoot. Maybe it’ll help you warm up to the idea of Lemon being in the encore spot.”

       “Jack, I can’t,” I sigh. “Lina needs me here.”

     “Oh.” I can picture his face falling. “Well, I understand. You’re joining the tour again when it goes down under, aren’t you?”

       He’s caught me off guard. “Why would I not be?”

       “Some crew members are quitting after Zooropa. Makes it a lot easier to travel, let me tell you. We’re also getting rid of the Zoo Plane-”

     “You’re not quitting, are you, Jack?” I break in.

       He laughs. “No! I’ll stick with this tour to the bitter end. Australia’s the place to be, man!” Before I giggle he slips back into professional mode- “I guess I’ll see you next when Zoomerang begins.”

       “ _Zoomerang?”_ What a ridiculous title- and yet so apt. I drum my fingers along the phone. “Jack, I really want to see the videoshoot.”

       “Are you sure Lina can’t survive without you?”

       I think. I’m afraid that my up and leaving will hurt her more than I can imagine. But everything in me -not just my soul, my entire being- is drawn towards Zoo TV. I haven’t lived normally without it.

       “She’ll live. God. She’ll have to live.” Already I can see the bright lights of the screens flickering in my face, hear the riff of Zoo Station crank out in the air and feel that surge when Bono rises to the stage… _Bono._

At once I can’t care that he probably doesn’t love me- that I literally have no chance with him. I have to get to the Lemon videoshoot- I need to see Bono. And- well, I did have other friends there…

       “Where’s the videoshoot taking place? I could catch a plane tonight.”

       “It’s right here in Dublin. We’d love it if you could come!”

       “I should talk to Lina,” say I, knowing full well that I _won’t_ be talking to Lina. She might try to prevent me from going, and I can’t have that happen. “See you then, Jack. Can you give me the address?”

     He tells me where the video will be shot and I write it down, already figuring out the time difference between Rotterdam and Dublin. We say goodbye, I hang up the phone- and at that moment Lina walks in through the door, carrying only one grocery bag and looking put out.

       “Could you hold this, please?” is the first sentence from her mouth. I jump up and snatch the bag from her hands.

       “Oh Lina, it’s not that heavy,” I breathe, turning and setting it down by the sink. Lina waddles over and begins pulling out food supplies.

       “It _sucks_ when you’re carrying it up several flights of stairs with stomach pains,” Lina groans. For the first time today I notice how she’s slightly hunched over, bending in on her belly.

       “What, is it your time of the month?” I tease. Lina and I have never been far apart in getting our periods, and mine just finished a few days ago.

       Lina frowns- “No, I… not yet…”

     Leaving it at that, I suggest she take some Advil and make dinner. We settle down at the table, and I wait until Lina’s halfway through the meal to mention the Zoo world, bringing it up as casually as possible.

       “So, you wouldn’t be too troubled if I fly out to Dublin tomorrow?”

       Already Lina is putting down her fork. “You aren’t going to there to kidnap Bono, are you?”

       Actually that’s a pretty fair guess, but I let the remark slide and tell her that I just _happened_ to hear, by dropped word, that U2 is shooting a video tomorrow and I want to be there to oversee it. Lina sighs.

       “Can you please just stay in one place for a bit? You’re the only one I can depend on here in Rotterdam. Marieke, if you want to go to Dublin you can’t be gone long.”

       I hear and understand her every word, but I don’t want to obey. I can stay in Dublin for as long as I want- who is Lina to dictate my every move? The more I think about it, the more irritated I get.

       “I’m not making any promises,” I state. “But I won’t forget you this time around, Lina. You’ll be first and foremost in my thoughts.” I’m not sure if this is a lie or not.

      Lina opens her mouth, sighs, closes it, and looks off to the side. “Marieke.” Her tone of voice is soft. “I know you feel that I’m always nagging you, that you would be better off without my reminders. But that tour really changed you; I can see it in your movements and hear it in your voice. And you got into such deep shit with Larry and all… Marieke, you’re itching to be gone from Holland. Anyone can tell that. And I’m afraid- I’m just so stupidly afraid that if you leave now, you’ll never want to come back.” She looks down at her plate and half-eaten food.

       She has a point. My life has been so dull and flat without the nightly U2 shows and the Zoo crew to liven things up. And god, I miss it to the point of pain. I’m not thinking of hurting Lina right now- I’m thinking of how I will be hurt myself if I don’t get back to that mindset.

       “Don’t be silly. I can’t stay with the Zoo crew forever, you know!” Lina looks up as I continue. “I’ll always be there for you, Lina. I need you to provide me with a home!” Though without jobs for either of us, I’m not sure how much longer this home will last.

       We talk a little more, and Lina realizes she can’t hold me down. By the time we reach a consensus, I’m done with dinner and Lina’s barely taken any bites. I put my plate in the sink, elated to be seeing the band again tomorrow, and leave the dishwashing to Lina so I can go pack my suitcase.

                                               ***

       I’m the first one to wake up in the morning, having already reverted back to my tour sleep schedule. Taking advantage of my privacy, I hop into the warm shower and wash my hair. The water calms me down, draining away all thoughts but one- _I’m going to Dublin!_

Outside of the bathroom, I find Lina running water in the sink, her face pale. “Good morning,” she murmurs indistinctly, not looking at my eyes. I suppose she’s dampened from my announced departure this morning.

       We make and eat breakfast, and I keep sneaking glances at my suitcase by the corner of my bed. I hope Lina hasn’t noticed I’ve packed more stuff than would normally befit a two-day trip… Lina looks as if she has something on her mind, but whatever it is, she doesn’t voice it. When breakfast is over, I rise and give my best friend a hug.

       “Do you want to drive with me to the airport?”

       “If you’ll let me,” Lina answers, looking up.

     I laugh. “Why wouldn’t I?”

       The flight into Ireland leaves in a few minutes after we reach the airport- the KLM Airlines, to be exact, my personal hell. I walk past the phone girls with a smug smile on my face. _Take a look at me now!_ Just before walking through the tunnel for my flight, I embrace Lina again, harder than before.

       “Take care, call me if something comes up, and for the love of God, get a job!”

       “I could say the same,” Lina murmurs. “Just not the bit about the job. Come home _safely!”_

       Now we’re parted, and I keep Lina’s face imprinted in my mind for as long as I can, watching her grow smaller and smaller behind my back until I’m on the plane and the image dissipates.

     Excitement swirls in my stomach as the plane takes off. I lie back in my seat and daydream about the Lemon video. What will the concept be? Will it be anything like the Numb video? Will I get to be a part of it? Well, I guess I’ll find out soon…

       Of course there are the other, more important questions. Will anyone have missed me from the tour? What will the band think of my reappearance- and what will Bono say? Oh god, I’m going to see Bono today. Suddenly I wish I had dressed in a more choosy attire. Will Ali be there? Will he ignore me like he did at the after tour party? Or will the welcome be a little more, well, welcoming?

       I plug in my little in-flight headphones and flip through radio stations. A funky guitar stops me in my tracks. It’s Mysterious Ways! I close my eyes and jam out.

       _One day you’ll look back_

_And you’ll see where you were held_

_Now by this love_

_While you could stand there_

_And not move on this moment_

_Follow this feeling_

Eventually the plane reaches its final destination. I haul my suitcase out of the luggage rack and slide in through the airport terminal, taking my first steps back into Dublin. It tastes so sweet. There are quite a few people waiting on their loved ones from the flight, and one is even holding up a huge sign. My eyes adjust and catch the name printed across it- ANGEL OF HOLLAND.

       I laugh and hurry up towards the sign. “Jack, you shouldn’t have!”

       “I should have,” Jack says evenly, uncovering his face as I come around to his other side. He looks sunburned- probably from spending the final days of summer out in the fields of Scotland. “Miss Marieke… it is great to see you again.”

        We catch up on the taxi ride into Dublin- though really, with all the phone chatting we’ve been doing recently, there’s not much to catch up on. I don’t ask about how any of the band members are doing- I want to talk to them personally- but I do implore Jack on the concept of the Lemon video, and voice a few of my ideas for it . Jack shrugs.

       “I don’t want to spoil too much for you, but let’s just say you’re going to take a lot of pleasure out of this video than most people.” I ponder that tidbit all the way through the rest of our ride and our walk into the filming studio.

       Just before we get into the supposed room where U2 is filming their video, Jack takes my arm. “Marieke, for your own good, try not to crowd the band’s space too much, especially not Bono’s. It’s not that I have absolutely no faith in your ability to control yourself, but please, don’t be too obvious. Bono’s attitude changes greatly in Dublin, as you may have found out from the end-of-tour party.”

       I frown slightly- what is he saying? That I shouldn’t make a drastic move with Bono? Have I been known to do such a thing? “I… I don’t understand, Jack.”

       “Ah well,” Jack sighs. “I really can’t explain it. You’ll find out what I mean on your own.” With that he motions for me to open the door. I do so- and, walking in, find myself face-to-face with The Edge. He’s wearing a deep blue suit, a black beret, and sunglasses. It looks so silly I want to giggle.

       “What’s so funny?” Edge asks, indignant, but his face softens. “Marieke! You’re here!”

       “Hey, de Rand,” I say, and sidestep further from the door. “Why are you wearing that?”

       “It’s for the video,” Edge explains. “Look.” He fingers the pocket on the side of the uniform, and my eyes light on three lemons, explaining the significance of the uniform. I nod reverently.

     “Hey, isn’t this the same outfit you wore to the MTV Awards?”

       “The one and very same.” Edge puts a finger to his lips. “But don’t tell anyone that, or they’ll all want one, and I won’t be unique anymore!”

       “But we do all have one,” sounds a voice from across the room. I move my eyes. Larry stares back. He’s wearing the same uniform that Edge has on, but is pulling it off in a much more attractive way. I have to force my eyes to stop ogling him- and pretend to ignore the engagement ring standing prominently on his hand.

       “Hi, Larry,” I murmur gently.

     “Hey, Marieke, good to have you,” he answers back coolly, keeping his distance. I’m a little frustrated with his insistence on staying away from me. It was one night that will never happen again… well, as far as I know it won’t.

       “Where is everybody?” I ask. Of course, by everybody mean _where is Bono?_ Some assistants for the video are milling about, and I spot a director and a cameraman in the area. But the other two band members are nowhere to be seen.

       “Bono’s changing clothes for the next shot…” I stop listening to Larry right there. He scrutinizes me with his dark blue eyes. I wave him off. Only one man matters right now.

       Jack is wandering around the room, making small talk. He orbits back to my side and nudges me. “Are you hungry, Marieke?” he questions in Dutch.

       “Not really…” I respond. Jack is undeterred. “Come on, I’ll show you where the snacks are.” He pulls me away. I’m sure he’s doing this so I won’t completely lose my head when Bono walks out. But why would I do that?

       We munch on fruit and sip soda and Bill Flanagan, who’s probably been editing his book during his off-tour time- and seeing more of Bono than I have been- approaches us and gives me his promised interview.

       “You’re the first fan that U2 has hired on this tour- or on any tour, as a matter of fact. What do you think was so special about you that made U2 change their policy on hiring fans?”

       “I’m not actually sure,” I say, shrugging. “Bono told me he liked the way I think. I’d been backstage twice before, and Eric Vandom offered me a job, even though I’d had no prior experience working in the music business.” _And even though it wasn’t his place to offer me one…_ “The band couldn’t think of a good place to fit me in, but after I suggested writing Mr. MacPhisto’s speeches Bono decided I was brilliant, and insisted to keep me on.”

       “Do you feel the fact that you’re the only fan the band has ever hired has given you any privileges or limits that normal employees wouldn’t have?”

     “Oh, not really. I mean, I get to see Bono and the band a lot more often than some would, but other than that, I feel they treat me pretty fairly, specifically in payments. But how would I know what’s normal- I’ve never gotten that treatment! There have been no limits I’ve truly noticed before. If they want me to stay out of their hair, they’ve never mentioned it to me.”

       “You observe the show every night from the wings,” Bill says. “Is the way MacPhisto performs your speeches in any way similar to what you had in your head? Is it satisfying to see your writing being performed onstage, or do you usually go, _‘Oh no, you’re fucking up my speech!’?”_

I laugh. “That does happen sometimes, but usually MacPhisto sticks to my script. Sometimes he ad-libs or deviates from my original writing if he can’t remember the punch line, and sometimes he has to make up a conversation from thin air if we actually catch a celebrity on the phone. Only once have I been utterly, completely dissatisfied, and that was when Bono refused to have me write a speech. He went out there with a speech of his own, and it just didn’t meet my standards.”

       “So you have trouble when he writes for himself- you prefer your touch to his?”

       “No, it wasn’t that,” I say. “Bono just essentially turned the character MacPhisto into himself. He called his home phone number. That was wrong. I see the human Bono as being completely different from the character MacPhisto. MacPhisto is what Bono could become in the future, if he isn’t careful. The lives of those two must be kept apart from each other- MacPhisto must stay in the encores of Zoo TV, and Bono lives everywhere else.”

       Jack pops a strawberry into his mouth, delicately biting through its flesh with his teeth. Bill looks as if he’s going to ask me another question, but suddenly a voice rings through the air and all my attention is diverted.

       “I’m ready for the next shot!” the croaky British accent intones. Filled with glee, I spin my body around and come face to face with Mr. MacPhisto. Without a shirt.

       He’s holding the red fabric in his hands, looking to pull it on over his head. His white face makeup is on, the red lipstick covering his mouth. Not a hair out of place!

       MacPhisto blinks at the sight of me and speaks in Bono’s voice. “Marieke! It’s good to see you here.” I nod and say roughly the same, trying to stop my eyes from tracing the planes of his chest- at least, what planes I can see beneath the thick curls of hair. Every part of his skin that’s showing past his face is tan, out of place with the ivory of the face paint.

       I realize I’m supposed to say something more, and fumble for words. “I came here to see Lemon being shot. Jack and I were talking about the video on the phone. He invited me.” Never have I been more painfully aware that my voice is nowhere near the standards of a true English speaker. MacPhisto slips his red ruffled shirt over his head, lowering my lusting by a hair.

       “Why are you… dressed like this?” I ask, gesturing to the MacPhisto guise. “What’s the video about?”

       “Oh, I decided for once I’m not going to be Bono in a video,” he laughs, using that endearing but maddening British accent. “And don’t you like me better this way?”

     Yes, yes, I like him a _lot_ better this way. For one thing, MacPhisto is single.

       As he walks off, obeying the director’s orders to get back on set, I call to him, “MacPhisto, where are your horns?”

       He turns back around and winks at me. Oh, I’ve missed that.

       “I lost them, _Angel,_ and don’t tell me I can’t do without!”

       He can do without, I realize. MacPhisto is instantly recognizable even without his trademark accessory.

       Once my Devil has gone, Bill finishes his interrogation quickly and I lean against Jack to watch the filming. MacPhisto twirls, moves his arms robotically, and lip syncs to the track. At one point, he even clings to Adam, hugging the bassist tightly to his body. I whisper to Jack, “Is this what you meant by I’d get more out of this video than others?”

       “Yes,” he murmurs back. I also think I understand now why he warned me to control myself.

       The video shooting lasts for quite a while. There are no extras needed, so I begin to despair at my hopes of ever being in a U2 video. _You had your chance with Numb, but lost it to Morleigh…_ Some folks go home, Bill being one of them, and some stick around, like Jack.

       The band, of course, isn’t allowed to leave until all filming is over. Unlike in Numb, U2 has to be in every shot of the Lemon video- though Bono/MacPhisto appears more times than the rest. After the MacPhisto scenes are filmed, Bono goes back to the changing room- I try to get him to say hi to me as he walks, but he’s distracted- and reemerges as The Fly. My eyes dance over his leather body.

       Jack leans forward and whispers in my ear as I trail The Fly with my eyes. “Remember what I said earlier- about trying not to crowd Bono’s space?”

       I rip my gaze away from The Fly. “What?”

     Glancing around, Jack casually slips into Dutch. “I can’t seem to explain it correctly. I’ve just noticed that Bono’s entire demeanor changes when he’s at home and not working. It’s different from what you’re used to, on tour.”

       I watch The Fly perch on a small ledge, leaping off, and wonder what Jack means. “He doesn’t seem any different.”

       “But you have to be careful,” Jack continues. “Because remember that flirtatious, cheeky Bono you met on Zoo TV? From what I’ve observed, he’s not like that here. Surely your birthday party would be an indicator of that.”

       This is even more mystifying. I hadn’t perceived any change in Bono’s behavior from the time on tour and the time of my birthday party- if anything, he was even more infectious than usual, singing love songs to me. But then again, that had been at a party. And I had asked for that kiss…

      “Does this have anything to do with Ali?” I ask. Thank God we haven’t seen each other since the aftertour party.

       “Not exactly…” The scene in front of us collapses and U2 drifts to separate parts of the room- Larry out a door, Adam to a corner, and Edge and The Fly to the camera to review the shots. It’s hard to focus on Jack’s words- “It may have a little to do with his family, but… I just feel that there’s a certain change in his behavior towards you.”

       _Shut up._ “You know something? You really can’t explain it.”

       “It should be obvious to see later on,” Jack says, finishing the conversation without his temper slipping away. I stand up and stroll over to the video’s director, Mark Neale, lapsing back into English. “Can I see the film?”

       Mark turns the camera over to me and I watch the raw, unedited footage of Mr. MacPhisto dancing, of U2 moving around in meaningless tasks, and of The Fly doing what he does best- striking poses.

       “It’s good,” I say skeptically, handing the camera back and wondering how the footage will look edited.

       It takes hours to finish filming, and the stars of the shoot are exhausted by now. The last few shots are of MacPhisto alone, so the rest of U2 scatters while the Devil films his last scenes. I’m growing sleepy, nodding off on Jack’s shoulder, only to jerk back into wakefulness with each cry of, “Cut!”

       Soon Jack is rousing me again- “The video’s over, Marieke.” I scan the room and see Mark and the cameramen packing up. Darn. All I wanted today was to talk with Bono, and we’ve barely exchanged a word.

       Upon leaving the building, Jack falls into Dutch, asking me, “Where are you sleeping tonight?”

       I glance down at the heavy suitcase I’ve packed this morning. “Er…”

       Jack’s tone grows affectionate. “You planned on crashing with me, didn’t you?”

       “It’s nothing,” I say hurriedly. “I can buy a room for myself. I don’t want to take up your space.”

       “What do I care about that?” Jack asks, shrugging. “You’re a friend. I’ll let you stay with me.”

       “Can I sleep on the couch or on the bed?” I ask.

       “Well… which one would you prefer?”

     I laugh. “You know damn well what the answer is. I _love_ you.” Embracing Jack, my eyes scan the area behind his shoulders. People are still trickling out of the building, and my watching the doorway pays off when I spy a man heading towards us, his black clothing blending in with the night’s darkness. I wave and disentangle myself from Jack, who murmurs, “I love you too, woman,” teasingly and turns around with me.

       “Hi Bono,” I say.

       “Hey, Marieke- how’d you like the video filming?” Amusingly enough, those dark Fly shades still cover his eyes, even in the dark of night. It’s bugging me a little not to know where his gaze is focused. I reach up to Bono’s face. “It was fun. Come on, do you really need these now?” Bono allows me to remove them, and pulls them out of my hand. “Mine,” he growls, mockingly. “No, I don’t need them. Just keeping up appearances.” Now that they’re off his face, I can see his eyes flickering from me onto Jack, and staying there. He has a puzzled expression.

       “The footage will be edited by tomorrow,” Jack says. “I can’t wait to see how the video turned out.”

       “Me either!” I exclaim. “Bono, you were great performing today.”

     “Sounds like someone’s biased,” Bono laughs, plucking a curl from my head and tickling my cheek with it. Now this is the Bono I remember. But he still holds confusion in those blue eyes of his, and it only deepens as his gaze drifts onto Jack once more. What’s going on between them?

       “Biased? You mean with MacPhisto?” I say. For some odd reason Jack decides now is a good time to intrude upon the conversation. “Hey, Marieke, sorry to interrupt-“ well, at least he’s courteous- “but we have to get a taxi soon. The hotel’s not close enough for us to walk.”

       “Yeah, I meant MacPhisto,” Bono says slowly, not looking at me.

       “Goodnight, Bono,” I say regretfully. “It was nice seeing you.” He nods and waves, and I wander off towards the sidewalk, wondering what’s going on in his head right now. Could this be that shift in personality that Jack described to me earlier today, or has Bono just got a lot of stuff on his mind?

       “Jack, can I talk to you for a second?” Bono calls. Jack dashes back, telling Marieke to wait for him.

         “What’s up, boss?”

       Bono doesn’t laugh. “Just- what was that you were saying to Marieke right before she noticed me? It sounded like-“ Bono tries out a rough imitation of the phrase.

       “Oh, that?” Jack repeats the phrase with perfect pronunciation. “ _Ik hou van je._ I told her I loved her.” Noticing the unconscious glare in Bono’s eyes, Jack quickly explains, “In a friendly way, not romantically. Are you jealous or something?”

       It takes a moment for Bono to laugh. “Ah, no, just wondering what it was you said. Thanks, Jack. Catch you around.” Jack nods and runs off, back to Marieke.

       “What was that about?” I ask.

     “Oh, Bono thought when I said I loved you, I meant I _actually_ loved you, and wanted me to make it clear for him.” I try to keep my expression indifferent, but I guess I’m not doing a good job of it, because Jack says, “Don’t read too much into it, Marieke. I’m sure he didn’t mean it _that_ way.”

       “I know,” I say, a little huffily, and hail the first cab that comes our way.

       Meanwhile, Bono is strolling home, having left his car behind, and ponders deeply the information Jack has just revealed to him. The Dutch phrase has sounded in his ears many a time when he’s hung out with Marieke- it is the only thing she has ever said to him in her native language, as far as he can remember. Come to think of it, the audience in Rotterdam was also yelling it at the opening show of Zooropa, but Bono had shut that out as he sang, focusing on the music.

       What would be the point of veiling a phrase in another language so Bono can’t understand it? There’s only one explanation that makes sense- the person who spoke it doesn’t _want_ Bono to understand it, maybe because it’s embarrassing, or a secret. A secret… Bono feels he has struck on something there. When was the first time he ever heard Marieke speak it…

     The first clear memory that comes to Bono’s mind is backstage, after the show in Oslo, Norway. He’d embraced her, and after they pulled apart she had murmured something quietly- “I love you,” as Bono now knows it means. Still, when he had heard the phrase for what would appear to be the first time, it hadn’t really felt like the first time…

       Bono has been trying to forget Marieke’s birthday party, as it was definitely not one of the best nights of his life- indeed, it had been downright embarrassing, with Eric and Marieke both acting so unprofessional, all culminating in that kiss outside, which was definitely worthy of being buried beneath his brain. That time _he_ had been the one acting unprofessional, going with Marieke’s request to fill his desire- a desire that shouldn’t even be there, as just the night before Bono had been proclaiming his love for Ali as they lay in bed together.

       But that night had awakened something in him, something that felt frighteningly familiar- and very _right._ Everything was connected- the Dutch phrase meaning “I love you,” the kiss- which hadn’t felt like the first time either, terrifying Bono to death if he thinks of it- and public phones, which even now as Bono passes one on the street feels compelling, as if he must go in. Something is up, there’s no doubt about it. Bono just can’t distinguish reality from a dream- maybe he’s just thought he kissed Marieke, which is embarrassing in its own right, but at least is in no way cheating on Ali, as would be the case if he really has kissed her. He is still struggling to work everything out as he walks up the front steps to his house.

       Jack’s room is dark when we enter it together, and I unpack my suitcase as he turns on the light and strips the sheets from the bed, hauling them over to the couch. “Are you sure you’ll be comfortable?” I ask, and he nods. “I’ve slept on couches before. It doesn’t bother me.”

       After brushing my teeth and changing clothes- behind a locked door, of course- I lie awake in bed and listen to Jack’s deep, soft breathing. For once I wish that it was him I’d fallen in love with. He may not be attracted to me now, but in another world we could be very happy together. I wonder, if we hadn’t met each other on the tour- if we had casually met in Rotterdam, or anywhere else- would it be him I’m obsessing over now? Would we be as close as Herman and Lina once were? Would she be the envious one at home, disliking Jack simply for the reason that he’s my boyfriend, and she has no one to hold?  
       But then again, if I’d met Jack without the added bonus of Zoo TV, I never would have found the man who tops him.

       The last thing I do before sleep takes a hold on me is consciously refuse to call home.

                                         ***

       After Bono has left the film studio, the rest of the band stays behind for the space of a few moments, and in those few moments Larry calls them to a meeting. “I want to talk to you guys, and we can’t include Bono in this.” Edge and Adam follow uncertainly, sitting down at the now empty refreshment table.

       Once everyone’s been seated, Larry speaks up, letting loose his internal verbosity that he usual keeps silent in his head. He tells his bandmates about his suspicions that Marieke has a crush on Bono, and asks them if they have ever believed this or noticed something that might suggest her feelings towards him.

       Edge is the first one to speak. “It’s funny you should say this, Lar. I never noticed it on Marieke’s part, but- well, call me crazy, but I believe I’ve spotted it on Bono’s part.” He falls silent, tapping his fingers softly against his jeans.

       Larry doesn’t voice his opinion on this as he tries to process it, but Adam speaks up almost immediately- “You sure? I always thought- I always thought Marieke liked someone else. I thought she and Jack were together…”

       “And we all thought Bono was forever faithful to Ali,” Larry murmurs. “What makes you think he’s not, Edge?”

       Edge sighs. “It’s nothing he’s said to me. I just pick up vibes when they’re together. It could be just a crush… I’m afraid to ask him about it, though. I tried once and he dismissed the whole thing.”

       “Hmmm.” Larry settles back in his seat, unable to get another word out. So Marieke’s infatuation may not be unrequited? He flashes through his memory, trying to find proof that this is true- and suddenly remembers his view of every contact Bono and Marieke have ever had. There’s a possibility that Bono’s flirting went beyond just that. Why hadn’t Larry noticed any of this before? Threads begin to spin in his head. If Bono truly loves her…

       “Should we get them together?” Larry blurts.

       Both Adam and Edge are surprised. Adam says, “You remember that lunch in Bologna, when I made a joke about him separating from Ali? You know how angry he got then. I don’t think he’d be happy without her.” He calmly lights a cigarette.

       _What an understatement,_ Edge thinks. He too remembers that lunch in Bologna- it had been the first time he had suspected that something was not all right with Bono.

       Three-fourths of U2 finally leave the studio with the conversation heavy on their minds. Larry rolls this new-old information about Bono over in his head. He knows Bono and Ali’s marriage should never be broken apart. He knows Marieke is not the best choice for Bono. But he can’t get the idea of them together to leave his brain. Bono’s usually the matchmaker in U2, but Larry is sure he can stand in for him. _After all,_ he thinks, _Marieke didn’t deserve me, but she does deserve Bono._ A little voice whispers in his ear, telling him that’s not the only reason he wants to see them together. Larry shakes it off. He believes this will work.

                                                 ***

       The first sight my eyes treat me to in the morning is Jack sitting on the back of the couch, talking to someone on the phone. He notices me, smiles, and turns his back. I sit up, roll out of bed, and head to the bathroom.

     Once I’ve brushed my teeth, washed my face, and changed clothes, Jack has finished his call. I ask him who it was- “Someone from Rotterdam?’

      “No, not Herman,” Jack says. “But it was definitely someone who-“ He stops himself short and glances around. “Well, I’d appreciate it if you could keep this on the down-low, but I’ve gotten myself into a relationship with someone in Scotland. It might not last.” He gives a shrug. “For some reason my relationships never do. But for now it’s going strong, and I’m very proud of that.” He grins.

     “Man or woman?” I ask.

     “You won’t know till you meet ‘er,” Jack says nonchalantly. I raise my eyebrows. “Jack, you just gave it away.”

       “Oh, did I… ah, shit,” he sighs. “Oops- sorry, Marieke.”

       “Doesn’t offend me,” I say.

       Jack hops up. “Damn, why am I keeping you in here?” He laughs. “I don’t think you’ll be able to stand me, Marieke. I’m _very_ quirky when I’m not working. Maybe a room for yourself is a better idea.”

     “It’s more private at least,” I say. “Shouldn’t you be getting dressed?” Jack agrees to this and takes over the bathroom. Out of curiosity, I try the door when he’s inside- he’s locked it, and I can hear his voice calling evenly from the interior, “Can’t take any chances, now can we?”

     I stare at the wall, thinking on how coincidental it is that I was just wondering what it would be like if Jack and I had dated last night, and now this morning it turns out he already has a girlfriend. When Jack returns to the main room, brown hair dripping, I relay these thoughts to him.

         Jack stares. “If you and I had started dating, Marieke, neither of us would be here in Dublin right now.” He’s right, as always.

       When we’re ready, we go get breakfast from the lobby downstairs, and walk out into the crisp Dublin air. Autumn is fast approaching us, and the leaves are turning and blowing off the trees- blowing into my hair, even, but I comb them out with my fingers. Next month is October, the month for which U2 has written an entire album about. It’s my least favorite U2 album, but the title track sticks in my head as Jack leads me across the street.

       _October, and the trees are stripped bare_

_Of all they wear_

_What do I care?_

_October, and kingdoms rise_

_And kingdoms fall, but you go on_

_And on…_

We conclude the walk at the foot of a large cement building, which Jack takes me inside of. Almost immediately I can hear music- a driving bass backbone, some enthusiastic drums, and an unearthly guitar. My heart springs at the wild voice, emoting in a tone of danger. _“Daddy’s gonna pay for your crashed car…”_

Inside the rehearsal room, the sound pounds into my brain, making it impossible to hear anyone’s voice. I stare at U2 on the makeshift stage. Edge is stomping pedals, making all the effects himself, while Adam’s bass throbs and Bono stands center, eyes half-shut, wavering in place to the music. The song ends, and I burst into applause. Bono opens his eyes and smiles, not seeming surprised that I’m here.

       “Hey,” he calls, and turns to the band, asking for their feedback.

       “Zooropa rehearsals?” I ask, walking towards the stage.

       “No, Zooropa was last month!” Bono spins to face me. “This is Zoomerang.”

       The name never fails to make me smile. I pretend that I haven’t heard it before and laugh, and Bono asks me what I thought of Daddy’s Gonna Pay For Your Crashed Car.

       “I just walked in, it was hard to judge exactly,” I say.

       “Let’s run that one again!” Bono yells, and the band, fiddling with their instruments, begins. It’s a great, energetic song- though the sound could use fattening with synthesizers- and Bono is obviously getting into it, rocking and weaving through the motions.

       It’s clear that the band is unsure how to end the song. My world is rocked when Bono starts yelling, “What a night! What a city! Zoooooomeraaaaang! Zooooooooooooomeraaaaang….”

       He shakes his head. I shake mine too. That didn’t sound right at all- not like the “ZOOOOORROPA!” cries at the end of Desire that I so love. And yet, I’m excited. This is implying that my man MacPhisto will sing Daddy’s Gonna Pay For Your Crashed Car, and nothing can be better than that.

       The band huddles in for a talk again. The decision is made for U2 to run Lemon. Now I’m intrigued. Ultraviolet will most likely be replaced by this song. How will it sound live?

       Edge’s guitar sounds even less human than in Daddy’s Gonna Pay for Your Crashed Car. I can’t even recognize it as a guitar- what effect is he using? Adam’s bassline is haunting- subtle on the album track, but prominent here, in person. Larry’s beats are nicely accenting the song.

       And Bono opens his mouth, and the sound that slides out of it makes my heart thump. “Leeemon…”

       Transfixed, my hands clasp each other. Bono sounds like an angel, using the best falsetto I’ve ever heard coming from him. His voice was nowhere near as heavenly on the album track. A dull point of wanting begins to beat inside me, a longing for- for Bono? For the song? It’s hard to say.

       The ending slows way down, and I see that the band are attempting a fade-out. Unfortunately, it isn’t pulled off quite brilliantly enough. The song falls flat with a clunk.

       Bono faces us- “What did you think of that?” It seems as if he’s only talking to me.

       “We need to work on a better ending,” Edge says. He takes off his guitar and walks over to the drum kit.

       “I liked it,” I call. “But yeah, the ending was bad. Where are you fitting this song in the set?” Maybe if I know what songs are the bread in the Lemon sandwich, it will be easier to decide how to finish it.

       “We’re moving it to the encore,” Bono says. “After Daddy’s Gonna Pay, I think…”

       So they’re dropping Desire too? There goes my obsessive MacPhisto attachment. However, if Lemon is replacing Ultraviolet, that means that the song that follows it up is With or Without You. And that would mean…

       “Adam!” I yell, snapping everyone’s attention onto me. “Give me your bass.” I stray to the stage and Adam unstraps his bass and hands it over. I check to make sure it’s tuned, and pick out the Lemon bassline.

       “I have an idea…” I murmur. Everyone, including Bono, is watching me. After a few tentative first attempts, I finally manage to hit a roll with the Lemon line and play it confidently for a few minutes before transforming it deftly into something much bigger and soul-searching…

       If everyone had been interested in me before, they are enraptured now. I play With or Without You until I get bored and drop my hands. Bono is the first to applaud me. Everyone else looks mildly impressed, but he’s the only one to clap excitedly, and I glow.

       “We could try that,” Adam says, smiling, and descends from the stage to take the bass back. Soon he’s testing out my new segue, polishing up my mistakes. Pride fills me. I can see the band itching to start the song once more.

       “Marieke Lang, you have done it again!” Bono cries, turning back to the mic stand. I smile, but something in me folds into an uncomfortable shape. I don’t feel right. Too many eyes are on me, too many people…

       “Thanks,” I say. “I’m good at transitions.”

       Wandering back, I wonder if this is what I was meant to do on tour all along- help the band think of musical links. Certainly Zooropa wouldn’t be the masterpiece it is if I hadn’t tampered with it, and now Lemon would have failed live if not for me.

       U2 plays Lemon once more, using my segue into With or Without You. The effect is transfixing. Bono sings a few times, “Midniiight… midniiight…” before Adam’s bass thrums into one of my favorite songs. Disappointingly, they cease playing once it’s worked out and nod at each other with satisfaction. But I love With or Without You…

       I stick around to watch Dirty Day be rehearsed- if it wasn’t for Daddy’s Gonna Pay For Your Crashed Car, I might insist MacPhisto to sing _this-_ but soon stroll off to find more crew members who are helping with the sound and effects of the new songs onstage. One thing I’ve learned on tour is that not even the band members can do everything. The underground musicians play a large part in getting every Zoo noise just right.

       During a break in rehearsals, I find to my delight that the band is heading backstage, towards me and others. I wave. Bono breaks from the four-man pack to give me a hug. “Hi, Angel!”

       “Hi Bono!” I chirp. Someone catches his attention and he turns from me. Desperate to make the conversation last, I clear my throat when they’re done talking. “Are you going to say it?”

       “Say what?” Bono asks.

       I imitate his Irish accent, putting my words low in my throat. “Marieke, you’re a genius!”

       He laughs. “Haven’t we already established that?”

       My ego gets another happy boost. The other band members are still in the room, talking to other friends- Edge is with Morleigh, and they look intense. Hm.... Adam is with Stuart, showing him the bass segue, and Larry has disappeared. My attention is momentarily suspended from wondering where he’s gone when two more men enter the room- Jack, and a man I recognize as Mark Neale, the director of the Lemon video. Excitement grows when I realize he’s carrying a tape.

       I call to Jack. “Hey!” As soon as he comes over, Bono leaves my side in favor of Mark’s. Grrr… why can’t I have two men with me? Jack greets me- “Hey is for horses, Marieke”- and I ask him if that’s the finished Lemon video Mark has in his hand. Jack nods. “It sure is!”

       Of course, we all decide to have a movie day. Everyday sits down in front of the TV and the video tape is fed into the VCR. I wasn’t there yesterday for the beginning of the filming, so this is going to be interesting.

     And it is. Words scroll across the bottom of the screen as captions- “Man running, man dancing, man shaking guitar.” The whole scene is washed in a pale black-and-white set against a background of intersecting lines. From the moment a hornless MacPhisto sings “Lemon, see through in the sunlight” to the last shot of the camera slowly moving away from his face, I am hooked on the screen, watching Bono’s alter egos dance. The moments where Edge sings “Midnight is where the day begins” are washed in light, with faint hints of smoke trailing up as the band members rotate in a circle. The camera zooms in on MacPhisto’s expression as he clings to Adam- a scrunched up face full of longing.

       The video ends, and we all applaud. I feel the need to stand up and turn my hands in Mark’s direction. Others take this cue and follow my lead, while I call “Bravo” to the band.

       Adam and Edge appear flattered, but at one glance it’s easy to tell that Bono is less than pleased. In fact, he’s downright shocked, or confused- I can’t read his expression.

     “I don’t like that footage,” he announces, brows knitting together. “It’s… it’s too _weird.”_

Weird? But the entire Zoo TV Tour is weird. Hell, Numb was weirder than that video! What’s Bono talking about?

       Apparently Mark wants to know as well, because he asks Bono to elaborate. Still looking confused, he answers, “I barely looked like myself! That wasn’t what I expected..”

       “Well, it’s not as if we can edit the footage,” Mark states uncomfortably.

       “Can you please do _something?”_ Bono cries. “It’s freaking me out. The video was s _cary._ We want to bring in U2 fans, not turn them away.”

       I try to tell Bono that of course he didn’t look like himself, he was MacPhisto, but he’s not listening to me. Mark is clearly worried. “Do you want to re-film it?” NO! They can’t destroy this work of art…

       We are startled from this debate when yet another man enters, bringing a sense of relief- it’s Larry, back from wherever the hell he was. “Hello, guys,” he greets us, and a light grows in me- maybe he’ll approve the video to go ahead.

       Three members of U2, plus Mark, urge Larry to watch and see what he thinks. I am treated to Lemon once more, and at the end of the clip Larry looks at Bono. “What’s wrong with it? This is the best performance I’ve ever seen you do.”

       “Really?” Bono asks, hope flaring across his face.

       “Really! That video was great!”

       “Yeah,” I cut in. “It’s the best U2 video I’ve ever seen.”

       Bono’s features settle back into content. “Well, we can’t let that go to waste.” I want to cheer.

       “Lemon- coming straight to your TV!” I exclaim, and Bono smiles at me.

       Our group breaks apart, and I travel over to Larry, feeling the need to congratulate him. “Larray!” I sing.

       He isn’t nearly as jovial. “Marieke. Em, may I talk to you?”

         Mistrust flows through me. “About what?”

       Seeing my face harden, Larry backtracks. “I mean, I just want to ask a question.”

         Hopefully it isn’t anything about our time in London. “Sure, go ahead.”

       Larry glances around as if to check if anyone is watching. This is a bad sign. My muscles tighten.

       But all he asks is, “What do you feel for Bono?”

       What? His blue eyes pierce me, and I know he’s not going to drop this subject until I’ve answered. But- but- how could he have known? Did Jack-

       “Have you been listening to rumors?” I ask.

       Larry’s seriousness will not leave. “What kind of rumors are you talking about?”

       Great God, I’ve just slipped up. “So, you haven’t heard anything?” I state skeptically.

       He leans back. “No, I haven’t heard any gossip about you. I’ve just begun to assume that your feelings for Bono extend beyond the usual friendship. Is that true?”

       “Larry-“ It’s not alarming that he’s figured it out. The secret’s been kept for far too long without anyone finding out or squealing about it. I wish there was a wall I can slump against. “The extent of our relationship does indeed go beyond friendship, but only on my part. Bono remains a devoted husband, and I’m just a woman with a schoolgirl crush.”

       I think he’s going to tell me off, but instead Larry says, “Like the one I had on you.”

       “Er…” How am I to relate his feelings to mine? We barely know the inside of each other’s heads. “Mine didn’t lead to a night together, though.”

       Larry’s face fills with pain. “I didn’t think so.” I can tell what he’s remembering right now.

       “Come on now, Larry, would Bono really cheat on Ali for me?”

       Instead of answering, Larry says, “There are too many people around.” No one notices as we slink off to talk in complete privacy.

       There Larry’s floodgates open up- who knew he was such a talker? Not me, that’s for sure. “Marieke, I’m worried about you and Bono. You may think it’s just an unrequited crush, but I have other ideas. Bono has you on the mind a lot more than he should. Working on those speeches together led to something deeper. I can’t tell if he’s aware of these feelings or not, but it’s clear to see- the man is infatuated with you. No one’s brought up the subject directly to him, but I’ve talked with Adam and Edge and they think the same. He loves you, Marieke. He just doesn’t know how to proceed.”

       At this moment my heart is given wings and it flies right out of my chest, while at the same time my stomach plummets to the soles of my feet. Oh God. The concept is too hard to imagine. Bono loves me. He… loves… me. I can’t react right now- there’s still a few questions to ask.

       “Have you known this for long?”

       Larry shrugs- “I’ve always known it unconsciously, somewhere. I can’t say when I first noticed his affection- It just sort of grew with every show. Edge was the first one to bring it to my attention. I didn’t realize you reciprocated those feelings until the tour ended, actually. Especially because of your hanging around with Jack and Eric, and then what we did together-“

      “That wasn’t even about me,” I cut in. “It could have been anyone else, in anyone’s hotel room.”

       “Let’s not talk about that,” Larry says quietly.

       I sit down. Larry doesn’t move. For once my eyes start tracing his features, trailing across every aspect of his body…. Dammit, why does he have to be taken?

       “I heard you’re engaged,” I say.

       “Yes.” Larry crosses his arms. I spy the small band wrapped around his finger- nothing flashy, in fact hardly noticeable.

       “Was I any part of your decision to propose?”

       “Yes,” Larry repeats. He looks down. “You know my heart always belonged to Ann. I never believed in marriage until I cheated on her with you. It was an awakening. I’m hoping being officially taken will make me think before I act on impulses with other women.”

       “I don’t feel so great, being that other woman,” I say. His brilliant blue eyes, a deeper sapphire color than Bono’s, stare up at me, waiting for me to continue.

       “Larry, how am I supposed to forget it?”

       He moves forward, sitting down next to me. “I don’t know,” he answers sincerely. I wrap my arms around myself.

       “So, now you’re going to tell me to keep away from you and Bono,” I say. “I’ll never love again.”

       Larry folds one leg over the other- “With me, yes. With Bono, no.” I gaze at him, surprised. He explains, “I’m on your side with this, Marieke. I don’t care if it breaks up Bono’s marriage, but you have to be with him.”

       “Really?” I wonder what brought this on. Maybe Larry thinks I have feelings for him and wants to point me in Bono’s direction so I won’t try any more moves with him. Maybe he feels sorry for me and wants me to get what I want. Whatever the reason is, it’s nice knowing someone’s rooting for me- even if it is a man who once loved me.

       Larry nods. “I know he needs you, somehow. You’re always the first one in his dressing room after a show. He doesn’t even let others come in until you’ve entered. I may be stuck behind the drums all the time, but it’s obvious to tell that when he dances with those women onstage, he really wants to go to the wings and bring you out. And I wonder, how has no one outside U2 noticed?”

       How have I not noticed? MacPhisto may have danced with me thrice, Bono may have kissed me twice, and we may have shared intimate moments when writing speeches, but never once did I suspect what I feel was shared.

       Upon leaving the room, it doesn’t take long before I’m back on the floor, staring up at the stage with my eyes glued to Bono. Larry soon slips behind the drums, is greeted by his bandmates, and the rehearsals begin again. I watch intently. Can that man in the dark shades, pouring his heart out under the spotlight, really love me? It feels like too much to hope for, but it must be true, unless Larry is leading me on.

       _A man makes a picture_

_A moving picture_

_A man melts the sand so he can see himself up close_

MacPhisto- I mean, Bono, turns on his heel gently, keeping a hold of the hand microphone. Without thinking, I blurt, “This would look great on film!”

       The music is deafening, making Jack, who is next to me, the only one to hear my remark- “You want to make the Lemon video again?”

       “It was fun,” I say. “I can’t wait to see U2 perform it in Australia.”

       Bill is also near us, and somehow catches the conversation. He turns around. “Didn’t you hear about the Triplecast?”

       “What?”

       “Oh!” Jack exclaims. “I forgot to tell you, Marieke! They’re filming one of the shows down under.”

       They _are?_ “Why is it called the Triplecast?”

       “I was about to explain,” says Bill. “U2 wants to broadcast it on three different channels, from three different angles- the whole crew is talking about it.”

         Except someone forgot to tell me, obviously, because this is the first I’ve heard of it. But Zoo TV on film… “The whole world will see it?”

       “As many people as the broadcast reaches,” Jack says.

       “So… I can be on TV?” I say, laughing. Jack laughs too. “Depends on where the cameras go!”

       But that’s not what I mean. This time, I’m not going to stay backstage. I remember Bono’s warning in Oslo, the last time he danced with me- _“Marieke? Don’t do that again.”_ Ha! Oslo was months away, and Bono has probably forgotten about that. When the broadcast occurs, I’ll be standing out there in the audience, by the B stage- and if Bono loves me like Larry says, he won’t be able to resist.

       _What Marieke does not know is that behind those dark Fly eyes, a pair of blue ones stare out at her, even as the mouth beneath them sings Lemon- even as the music stops._


	39. Say When

_Sickness floods her every cell, collecting saliva in her mouth, and she is woken up earlier than planned for yet another morning. It is in those early pale hours that she stands, trying to stomach water, and feels the shift- an obvious change, more in her mind than in her body, but a change all the same. Every nerve ending goes dead. She can’t feel for a moment- doesn’t want to think of this- maybe her mind has made it up… Head and heart pounding, she slumps against the counter. There’s only one way to tell. By the time she gets out, the gray of morning has given way to a magnificent sun, shadowing her as she moves into a windowless room, stares at her own face… Please, please, let this be a mistake._

_It isn’t. She panics. Her mind still tries to make connections for what could be. The procedure is performed again. Sweat beads on her forehead. It’s got to be a fluke… Sliding to the floor, she decides to perform the test again as soon as possible. And her body’s shifting beneath her very nose tells her not to. She knows. But she doesn’t believe._

_***_

       Flying from Scotland to Ireland to Australia leaves me dead-tired. My first moments in Melbourne pass by in a dream of hotel doors and elevators, ending on top of the bed. My body can’t wait to sleep off the effects of reversing day and night, brought on by traveling down under.

       Jack had invited me to stay in his hometown of Edinburgh for the rest of October when not preparing for the final leg of Zoo TV He introduced me to his girlfriend, Charm, who I’ve instantly taken a liking to. Though Charm and I hit it off real well, she often had Jack’s full attention, blocking me from the interior of their relationship. They went out often at night, reminding me that Jack is a closet party animal.

       I had stayed at Jack’s place those nights, despite his urging that the clubs will get me used to Zoo TV again, and wondered about the goings-on in Rotterdam. In one of the rare moments that Jack and I got to talk alone, he asked me if I’m feuding with Lina. I said no. “I just can’t speak to her right now.” Jack doesn’t press for more information, and so it stays inside my head- I’m not worried about Lina anymore. I know she’s probably hurt that I didn’t call after I promised I wouldn’t forget about her again, and that I was lying when I said I wouldn’t be in Dublin for long, but it doesn’t bother me. I can feel that whatever we had before I began working for U2 is gone- it’s no longer Lina and I against the world. Now we are against each other. I save my worries for my parents in Nijmegen, whom I call whenever I remember to. They in turn ask me how Lina is doing, not knowing that I’ve left her far behind.

       But now, none of that matters. I wake to November in Melbourne with a light heart, the first in days. Rolling out of bed, my glee cannot be disguised. It’s summer again! While the rest of the world digs out their sweaters, Australia tosses its winter clothing off and welcomes the return of the sun. If it were possible I would get a second home here and never have to experience winter again.

       Amidst the hustle and bustle of erecting the stage for U2’s first night in Melbourne, I have to do my job of seeking out Bono and writing MacPhisto’s prank call. Nervousness tingles in me. Will I be able to perceive a difference in Bono, if I look hard enough? Will it be apparent that he loves me?

       Bono has spent most of his time off tour in Dublin with his family, being a devoted caretaker; some of his time in the South of France, furnishing the beach house with Edge and meeting the celebrities; and all of the time thinking about Marieke, both consciously and unconsciously. He’s honestly tried, for the last time, to put her out of his mind. Nothing has worked. She has occupied Bono’s mind continually since she came back to Dublin to join the tour. He keeps remembering the kiss outside the Dublin pub on the night of Marieke’s birthday. Though she had been an embarrassment for most of the night, there was a moment- just that one moment, when they locked lips, that Bono realized she was so beautiful, despite every flaw. And now he knows she loves him- back?

       And every day Bono’s been damning himself for thinking such a thing, for letting his shield slip. He stares into Ali’s face, holding her close, basically being the perfect loving husband, to the point where Ali even stated that she couldn’t wait for Bono to return to Zoo, if he was going to remain this unbearably sweet. Bono had laughed, but inside he had grown more and more upset. Ali is less dependent on him, this is true. In earlier days on the Zooropa tour, this would have worried Bono to the point of distraction, and he’d have tried to restore the normal balance as soon as possible. But this time… is not like before. This time, it’s not that Bono is afraid of losing Ali’s affection. Instead, he is afraid of himself, what he might do when her back is turned. As Ali grows distinctly distant and Bono grows more attracted to Marieke… Bono tells himself this cannot happen. He _knows_ it would never work out. But in bed, when Ali sleeps on her side, Bono turns and sees Marieke’s smiling, laughing face behind his eyelids. He forces them open and she’s there in the dark before him. That’s when Bono usually tells himself it’s all a dream, it’s all a dream…

       As she walks forward at the Melbourne Cricket Ground, mahogany curls turned to waves from lack of a curling iron, jean skirt that somehow manages to reveal more than it covers, and fluttering papers in her restless hands, Bono realizes he is not the one to be damned. She is. If it weren’t for MacPhisto’s existence, Bono would have to claim Marieke to be the Devil.

       “Hello, Bono.”

       “Hello, Angel of Holland.” How ironic- even her nickname contradicts her true nature.

       “Glad to see me again?”

       “Why wouldn’t I be?” A forced smile appears on Bono’s face, genuine though it may seem.

       “Thought you’d have gotten sick of me by now.”

       _Isn’t that just rich!_ “How could I ever get sick of you?”

     An arm slides around my shoulders. I tense up. Bono’s making a move with me. Warmth drifts across my entire body. Fuck him. I love him to death, but _fuck him._

“Well, are you ready to write with me?” I’m surprised at the sound of my voice- how can it be so steady?

       “Sure,” Bono replies, wishing that Marieke’s invitation was for something else.

       We write with no less discussion than on any other speech. “You wouldn’t mind if I mention Madonna here, would you?”

       “Why not? They’re both pop stars.”

       I try a croaky British accent. “I think Madonna is gorgeous. Would you like to see _me_ without my clothes on?” Raucous laughter from Bono. Oh, if only he knew how much I actually do…

       “That’s a keeper, Angel.” Bono clears his throat and modifies- “Marieke.” She catches his eye and for a moment they stare at each other. Her silver bracelet sparkles, the M reflecting light.

         His eyes… why does he take off the shades for me? I can’t bear to see Bono’s blue eyes like this, unguarded and… so beautiful…

         We pull away, startled.

         “There’s work to be done here, Miss Lang…”

       I nod, angry that the moment had to end.

       Throughout the writing of the speech, Bono keeps catching glances he can’t help but pretend are meant for him. The way her eyes had lingered, just for a second… the hint of a blush on her cheek… When she stands to read the finished product to him, Bono admires the swing of her hips as she rocks on one foot.

       _Good GOD, what are you thinking?_

Once Bono would have been wary. He would have confronted Marieke and asked about his suspicions. But now he’s too blinded to his own desires to see the desires of another.

     “Bono?” She’s speaking his name, holding the script out to him. Bono stands and reads aloud in MacPhisto’s voice. Despite the old-man tone, I can’t help but adore the lushness of that dear British accent. This is going to sound great onstage… Bono’s eyes raise from the paper for a fraction of a second. The breath leaves me, and my shoulders slump the tiniest bit. Oh, who am I kidding? This is impossible. I can’t go on until I know that Bono burns for me as badly as I burn for him.

       The session over, I leave the script with its new owner. Bono pulls me close for a kiss on the cheek. _I am a woman,_ echoes in my brain. Remembering my old philosophy, I treat Bono coolly, as if he means nothing to me. But I can feel his blue eyes trailing me as I walk away, and my own lower, longing to squeeze shut. If only I could just curl up into sleep right here, drift away to a place where things are less difficult, where Bono and I have no conflicts whatsoever, where we can thrive together…

     Bono crawls off to a corner as soon as Marieke has left. He remains concealed for a while, and passes the time by fretting over his feelings. _You are so stupid…_ What contact have Marieke and Bono ever had with each other? She writes his speeches, she’s danced with him thrice onstage, she… loves him… But that is no excuse to love her back.

       Edge comes in a moment later, wondering where Bono has absconded to, and finds him staring blankly at a wall, eyes glazed over with worry. “Hey, are you okay?” Edge calls, pure concern ringing through his words. Bono snaps his head up. “…Yeah,” he answers, a split second too late to be convincing, and glances away from Edge’s prying eyes.

         Those eyes narrow as Bono turns, and the owner of them slips across the room to Bono’s side. “You don’t look like it to me.”

       Bono forces himself to stare eye to eye with Edge and give him the honest lie- “I’m fine.” He knows he doesn’t look or sound fine. Bono fully expects Edge to insist on the truth, but instead the guitarist only keeps silent as Bono crosses the room. Halfway out the door, Bono decides there’s no point in keeping secrets, and turns back. “Wait. Reg…”

       “What is it?” Edge asks, returning to his best friend’s side.

       Bono swallows. “Em, let’s sit down.”

       They have barely even moved before the story comes gushing out of Bono, water flowing through a broken dam. He forces himself to stay calm as he describes what Edge has sometimes suspected through these months of touring, and has come to a head with Larry’s shared thoughts- Bono lusts after Marieke. He wants her badly, but he can’t take her, because he still loves Ali madly. Edge listens attentively, understanding to a point what Bono is going through. After all, he went through it with Morleigh, who was tied down with a boyfriend when he fell for her. When Bono stops talking, afraid to say another word, Edge gazes at him until Bono has to return the look. Hazel meets blue, and Bono bursts out with, “Edge, what am I going to fucking do?!”

       Edge’s tone is serious. “End it.” He touches Bono’s shoulder gently.

       “I can’t, not when she’s on my mind.” Bono considers telling Edge about the shared kiss after the birthday party, but decides to leave that out. Edge would really advise him to end it if he heard about that.

       “I understand what you’re going through,” Edge says. “For the longest time I wasn’t sure if I really loved Morleigh or if it was a fantasy like Aislinn.”

       Bono remembers confronting Edge and telling him to go after Morleigh if he really loved her that much. Now the two are dating, and Bono feels more left out than ever. Adam is still engaged to his supermodel girlfriend, and even Larry has proposed to Ann… The talk in Bologna breaks to the surface of Bono’s brain, when three members of the band rejoiced in being the only single members of U2. Now that each of them are involved in a relationship, will Bono no longer be the odd one out- or will he become different yet again by joining the singles fiesta, as Adam had suggested he do?

         “I can’t leave Ali behind,” Bono states. “It’s impossible. I want both women.”

      He stares unhappily at Edge, who asks, “Has anything physical come of your longing for Marieke?”

       “Oh hell no!” Bono exclaims automatically, but backtracks when he realizes this is not entirely true- “Well… I did kiss her. Just once, after her birthday party in Dublin. It scared me, Edge. I didn’t want to stop.” And of course there’s the maddening feeling that he’s kissed her before, but that can’t be proven true or false.

       “Take my advice,” Edge says. “End it. If you still love Ali, ending it with Marieke will solve all your relationship problems.”

       _But I don’t want her to leave me,_ Bono thinks silently. Now he knows why he didn’t want her to take any breaks from the tour, even when she asked politely for them.

       Bono leaves the room, mind reeling, and strolls down the hall, trying to put on a normal face. He pulls the dark glasses over his eyes. Behind them, no one will notice the blue pools of pain and conflict. _Where did it all go wrong?,_ sounds in Bono’s head, not for the first time.

                                         ***

       As Edge goes off to search for Bono and Adam leaves the stadium, Larry finds himself left to his own devices. He sits down at the side of the stage and wonders privately if he did well in urging Marieke to chase after Bono.

       It really came as no surprise that Larry’s suspicions were true. Of course Marieke loves Bono. Who else would she want to love? But are Larry’s guesses that Bono loves her back spot-on? Everything seems clearer onstage- black and white. During concerts, Larry can tell that Bono wants Marieke. But out of that mindset, it all becomes hazy.

       Remembering what had happened to him with Marieke, Larry feels even more unsure about his talk with her. What if she tried to pull a stunt like that with Bono? What if he doesn’t really love her and she gets hurt? Larry tells himself he’s not concerned for Marieke’s well-being- more worried for Bono, as an incident like that could ruin his resolve.

       But isn’t that what he wants- to make Bono question his devotion to Ali? A small part of Larry is jealous of their relationship. Why have they been together for so long when Edge’s marriage broke apart… when Larry’s whole life was changed by sleeping with another woman? Bono needs to experience that feeling, Larry decides in a childish spite. It is only now that he sees the negative side of what could happen.

       Larry sighs. He still wants to go through with it with Ann, that’s true. Somehow he really can’t be angry with Marieke, for she has pushed him in the right direction.

       So many strands of tangled relationships… Larry spies Bono heading back out to the stage, shades clamped firmly over his face. Something has happened. Larry doesn’t want to know what it is. He gets to his feet, wishing that things were less complicated for everyone.

                                         ***

     Jack and I eat together at lunch, with minimal conversation. He concentrates more on chewing his food than on me. I’m starting to realize as I eat my garlic bread that our friendship is not as strong as it once was. I don’t know what’s changed- maybe spending so much time with Jack has taken away his aura of mystique that attracted me at first, or maybe I’m feeling left out now that he has a girlfriend. Whatever happened, I miss the bond we used to share.

       Of course, it could just be that as Jack is an introvert to the extreme, he rarely starts the conversation, and never asks for more details. And I’ve sure got a lot to tell him. Out of everything that’s happened to me off tour, Jack knows nothing about my kiss with Bono, the second one in my life, or the talk with Larry, when he revealed that Bono is attracted to me. I’m not going to say anything about either of those instances unless Jack asks, and as of now he hasn’t.

       “How did scriptwriting go?” Jack says to me. Well, here’s a change.

      “It was fine. Bono liked what I wrote, as usual.”

       He also had not shown any outward signs of infatuation. Is he hiding his love, or was it all a cruel lie?

     Jack leans in. “Marieke, how much longer can this go on?”

       “What?”

       “At some point you’re going to break. I’m sorry, but I honestly can’t see you being in such close proximity to Bono without your feelings giving way.”

       Wait. This isn’t sounding like my friend Jack. This is sounding like my enemy, Eric. What right does he have to nag me about keeping it safe? I know how to stay under the radar on my love- if only Bono would prove that he does return it.

       Leaning forward, I inform Jack of the truth. “You know how long I’ve been covering this up? Since the very beginning when I joined the tour. I was in love with Bono from the moment I saw him. You think I’m going to break now? Definitely not.”

       “But that was before there were any problems,” Jack points out. “Back then, Eric was your friend, Larry was no more than the drummer in your favorite band, and you weren’t as close to Bono as you are now, as you hadn’t yet gotten a job. I’m not saying you’re going to, out of the blue, profess your deep and undying love to Bono and try to convince him to feel the same. All I _am_ saying is if this tour ends and nothing has come of your adoration, what is there to do?”

       I push my chair away. “Don’t you think I have a life without Bono? I lived for years without knowing him personally! I won’t wither and die if he ends up never knowing I love him. It won’t be the end of the world.” Besides, if he really does feel for me, he’s probably going to bring it up sometime.

       “Yes, but-“ Jack takes one of his maddening pauses where he drinks from his glass- “what if U2 decides to offer you a job on the next tour? I mean, it probably wouldn’t be anything like your current job, but you have charisma, Marieke- they might want to keep you around. And then this would just happen all over again- lusting for a man you can’t have.”

      “Okay…” I’m struggling to keep my voice steady. “So what do you suggest I do about it?”

       Jack shrugs.

       Anger fills my mouth. “Why lecture me about ‘problems’ you can’t fix, Jack? And for that matter, I can’t fix them either. Can I request you leave me alone?”

     “All right!” Jack puts his hands in the air. “Chill, Marieke, I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m sorry.”

       I say nothing in return, just sip my own drink, mimicking Jack’s movements. What right does he have to tell me… When I open my mouth again, it’s to say, “I bet you haven’t heard the news.”  
       “What news?”

     Oh, he’s gonna love this. “Larry told me that Bono loves me. He says he’s noticed an obvious attraction, growing bigger every day. He knows about my affection, and wants me to go ahead and break up Ali and Bono.” Take that!

     Somehow, Jack doesn’t love that as much as I do. He cocks one eyebrow. “Are you sure? I mean, what exactly did he say? That doesn’t sound like Larry.”

       “Of course I’m sure!” I fume. “Larry wouldn’t lie about his best friend!”

       “Did he tell you this before or after you mentioned you love Bono?”

     I start to reply before I realize what he’s getting at. “You think Larry lied to me to make me feel like I had a chance?”

      “It’s possible,” says Jack.

       “No, Jack, no,” I blurt. “You weren’t there. You have no idea what went on in our conversation. Larry had so much conviction in his voice. It’s no lie. Can’t you see it?”

       “I see something,” Jack admits. “But I just can’t imagine Bono being that involved, sorry.”

       He’s really had it with me now. “Well, you know what? You’re wrong.” I lean inwards and, speaking in a whisper, pour out the story of the few times Bono has shown attraction to me- the kiss with an intoxicated, angry rock star in a phone booth, and more recently, at the end of my birthday party, away from gossiping eyes. Jack blinks, startled.

       “Marieke, why haven’t you told me about any of this yet?”

       “Because… because you’ve been hung up on your work and your girlfriend, and you never care about me anymore!”

       “Hush.” Now Jack’s starting to get annoyed. “If I didn’t care about you anymore, why would we be sitting here at the restaurant, having lunch?”

       “Not anymore,” I say, still angry with him, and push myself up from the table. Jack eyes my plate. “You going to finish that?”

     “No,” I growl acridly, and whirl out of the restaurant. He can pay this time.

                                   ***

       “In the naaaaame of looove… oooooohhh…” Bono snaps the microphone stand back, to the accompaniment of Australian voices cheering for him. The song concludes.

       “Melbourne!” Bono cries. “We love you!” The rest of the band exits the stage with waves. Reluctantly, Bono goes on to follow their lead. He can feel Marieke at the other end of the stage, drilling holes into him with her eyes. God! Bono can’t wait to get out of here.

     For Zoo TV’s last leg, there is a change in the nightly encore proceedings. Bono is led into a new dressing room, furnished with gold and red and containing a beautiful vanity with a large golden-framed mirror. Instead of running the confessions while Mr. MacPhisto becomes himself and having him prowl out onstage when they end, the confessions are run while I dress MacPhisto, and the band slips silently onstage while a Zoo baby- the drawing of a baby’s head on the cover of Zooropa- sings opera. The fanfare for Daddy’s Gonna Pay For Your Crashed Car sounds. MacPhisto hasn’t put on his jacket yet, and is still in the process of applying makeup. Suddenly a camera in the corner of the room lights up, letting us know we are being filmed. MacPhisto preens, flirting with himself in the mirror as he draws lipstick on his already-sweet lips. His eyes make love to his reflection. I feel like getting in his way, kissing those ruby lips. MacPhisto leans into the microphone in front of him, sighs, and sings the first line of the song- “You’re a precious stone…”

       The band is playing onstage, and the fans are going crazy with the sight of MacPhisto on the Zoo screens. Mr. MacPhisto himself croaks, “You’re out on your own,” and smiles at himself. “You know everyone in the world, but you feel alone.” Obviously referring to himself.

       MacPhisto stands, and I rush forward to provide him with his coat. “Daddy won’t let you weep,” he sings, threading one arm through the sleeve of his jacket. “Daddy won’t let you ache. Daddy gives you as much as you can take…” He grins. I nearly faint. I’ve missed this Devil so badly.

       “Ah ha, sha la!” Onstage, I know, the screens are flashing those words. “Ah ha, sha la! Daddy’s gonna pay for your crashed car.”

       He begins to move confidently onstage, striding with one hand on the microphone, platform boots set one in front of the other, the left foot leading as if he’s marching. MacPhisto even rolls his feet- it’s beautiful. As he moves, he sings, “A little uptight-“ what a pretty falsetto slide there!- “you’re a baby’s fist… butterfly kisses up and down your wrist!” He stops still and waves one arm, acknowledging the screams of the crowd with an angelic smile- and also knocking me dead in the process. “When you see Daddy coming, you’re licking your lips…” He slides one tongue across his lipstick, proving the point. “Nails bitten down to the quick.” MacPhisto outstretches one arm, fluttering his fingers. I swallow, trying to keep myself off him. He swings back around and continues on his way. “Ah ha, sha la…”

       And the Devil takes the stage with a bang. “Daddy’s gonna paaaayyyyyyeeeah!” he shouts, breaking into dance- hopping on one leg as Edge’s guitar jangles a solo. He hops from side to side, singing at a quicker tempo than the album version of the song, “You’re a head full of traffic, you’re a siren song- you cry for Mama, Daddy’s right along! He gives you the keys to a flaming car… Daddy’s with you wherever you are.”

       Now MacPhisto is moving all over the stage, twirling like a ballerina. “Daddy’s gonna paaaayyyy…” His voice screeches up to the highest notes. “He’s your best friend… Daddy holds your head right up to the end!” I shiver despite the warm weather- the song has chilled me.

       “Ah ha, sha la!” There, now I get to see the screen light up with the words. It actually creates a funnier effect than I expected. “Daddy’s gonna pay for your crashed car! Daddy’s gonne pay for your crashed car…”

       And suddenly MacPhisto stops dead and screams again, “Daddy’s gonna _paaaayyyyyyeeeeaaah!”_ And money blasts from the cannons, spewing into the warm night air. Naturally, the audience gasps, impressed. MacPhisto shouts it once more, smiling and moving robotically, and Zoo ECUs go fluttering into the sky once again. MacPhisto dances happily over towards the front of the stage, and wields one arm- it’s honestly a deadly weapon, I don’t think anything’s been more lethal to me than the power of those arms- and U2 finishes the song on a high note. “Daddy’s gonna pay… for your crashed… caaarr,” MacPhisto breathes, and quickly, before the audience can react, claps heavily, applauding his own talent with eyes closed, mouth turned up in a genuine smile. Typical MacPhisto!

       “Thank you,” he sighs. “You’ve made me very famous and I thank you. I know you like your pop stars to be exciting, so I bought… these.” He raises one leg, pushing his heel into the piles of Zoo ECUs- the stage is literally littered with them.

     Now MacPhisto starts in on the speech, and I watch nervously. “You need a good gimmick, don’t you, these days, with all the competition- Michael Jackson, Madonna.” Our audience boos respectfully.

       MacPhisto cocks his head. “I think she’s gorgeous! Would you like to see _me_ without my clothes on?” Female member of the audience get a huge kick out of that- here, here! I hope MacPhisto doesn’t notice that I’ve cheered just as enthusiastically.

       “Do you know that before I became a celebrity, no one found me very attractive at all?” MacPisto asks. Damn, I don’t think that was ever possible. “Now everybody loves me! All the glitz and the glamor… makes you _very_ sexy. You like celebrities, don’t you, here. What are you doing with poor Derryn Hinch, ten?” MacPisto makes a face and mimicks Hinch’s catcphrase- “Shame, shame, shame.”

       Amidst laughter of the crowd, he goes on to say, “Shall I give him a telephone call? When you’re famous, everyone gives you their telephone number.” Of course we all want to see it happen.

       MacPhisto moves backstage and dials. It’s not long before a man answers- “Hello?”

     “Hello, could I speak to Derryn Hinch, please?” MacPhisto asks.

       “I beg your pardon?”

       “I’d like to speak to Derryn Hinch, please,” MacPhisto reiterates.

       “Who’s calling?” the man asks naturally.

       “My name is Mr. MacPhisto!”

     Surprisingly, I hear laughter on the other end of the phone. “Oh no!” the man cries, and I realize it is indeed Hinch. The crowd laughs, claps, and cheers.

       “Derryn, I, I don’t understand it, I hear you’ve lost your job, old chap,” MacPhisto says, sounding surprised. “We think you’re rather terrific, young man. What happened?”

       Hinch answers, “Well, you’re very kind… but actually-“ Suddenly he changes the subject. “People have been mentioning your name in my office all week, you know that? Or at least your group’s name.”

     “Well, I’m delighted to hear it,” MacPhisto says, looking as if he could squeal with happiness. “I like a bit of respect from the media!”

       “Yeah,” Derryn says dryly, “because my staffers keep coming to me and they keep saying ‘I’ve been sacked.’ I’ll say, ‘You too?’”

       We all groan loudly, except for MacPhisto. “Well I must say, I have something to say, Derryn- we, we have a television station on the road, and we’d rather love you to work for us, if you’re doing nothing!”

     “Well, I will be a bit out of work over Christmas, so I’m looking forward to that!” Hinch laughs, not knowing that the tour will be over by then. “How did you get my number?”

       Uh oh. MacPhisto draws himself up and declares, “Well, I can’t tell you these things, but I _know-_ I know many things, actually.”

       “You do?” Hinch asks skeptically.

       “Yes,” responds MacPhisto with an air of aloofness.

       Hinch puts on a mock-angry voice. “Listen, you owe- you owe me a favor for intruding on my Friday night at home!”

     MacPhisto stutters, “Well, I’d rather like to g- I thought I’d offered you a wonderful chance to be on Zoo TV, and… I know it’s not Channel Ten…”

       Derryn laughs again.

       “but, it’s a, it’s a much hipper TV station!”

       The crowd lets out a HUGE cheer at that. Derryn announces, “Do me a fa- the favor I’d like you to do me is, could you-“ He seems nervous. “If tomorrow night, I’m sure you will, when you play Mysterious Ways, could you dedicate it to the Ten Network?”

       MacPhisto seems confused for a second. “Cause they- oh, I get the joke, ha-ha,” he sighs. “Well I’d just like to say one thing… we called you up for a very simple reason…” Without waiting for a reply, MacPhisto breaks into song. “I just called to say I love you… I just called to say how much I care…” Lemon starts up in the background of this a capella tune. “Goodbye Derryn!”

       “Bye bye!” Derryn says, laughing.

       “Melbourne loves you, mate!” MacPhisto says, putting on a fake Australian accent.

       “Bye bye, thank you!”

       “Au revoir!” That Devil can’t seem to shut his mouth. Hinch calls back, “Au revoir!”

       And finally, finally MacPhisto turns to his audience. “Off with the horns, on with the show!”

     For the first live performance, Lemon goes splendidly, like a dream. I almost can’t believe my eyes. MacPhisto saunters up to the front of the stage. “Leeemon… see-through in the sunlight… she wore lemon… but never in the daylight.”

       The rest of the band is wearing those blue uniforms they had on in the Lemon video. I must admit, it’s not a shabby look, despite my previous apprehension. MacPhisto, I have to grudgingly admit, looks weirder than all of them, prancing around flamboyantly while singing, “She’s gonna make you cry, she’s gonna make you whisper and moan! And when you’re dry… she draws the water from the stone!”

     He looks upward to sing in falsetto. Edge begins to hum softly beneath him, “Midnight is where the day begins…” And that’s where this performance differs from the album version. MacPhisto halts the falsetto mid-stream and sings against Edge’s voice, “Midnight…”

       “Midnight, is where the day begins…”

     “Midniiiight…” cries MacPhisto.

       “Midnight…” Edge whispers.

       “Midnight is where the day begins!”

       It’s a breathtaking countermelody. I’ve really got to hand it to U2. MacPhisto pirouettes, sliding down the catwalk. “Lemon, to color in the cold gray light… she had Heaven, and she held on so tight.”

      For the first time, I notice the karaoke going on up on the screen. MacPhisto turns his back to read it. “A man builds a city…” Edge sings. MacPhisto repeats that in his endearing British accent.

       “With banks and cathedrals.”

     “With banks and cathedrals…”

       They sing together. “A man melts the sand so he can see the world outside… a man makes a car… and builds a road to run it on. A man dreams of leaving, but he always stays behind.”      

       “And these are the days!” MacPhisto cries. “When our work has gone asunder! And these are the days when we look for something other!”

       This time he’s barely through the falsetto verse before he changes it, unable to resist singing that heartbreaking tune. “Midnight… midnight… midnight… midniiiiyeeet!” My soul is wrenched from my body. “Midniiiiight is where the day begins!” MacPhisto stumbles back, choking on the words. “Midnight is where the day begins…”

       He travels down the catwalk out to the B stage, pulling a camera close to his body for comfort. Apparently it’s not what he was expecting, because he steps away from the camera at once, looking shocked. MacPhisto’s devastating blue eyes fill the screen. God, I never realized how well the white face paint showed off his ocean irises… That’s where my own eyes lock, staying on MacPhisto’s huge, Zoo-enlarged face. He finally smiles, giving into the camera’s temptation, and sweeps it along the crowd.

       “A man takes a picture,” sings Edge. “A moving picture… a man melts the sand so he can see the world outside.”

       “You’re gonna meet her there,” MacPhisto joins in on top of that. “She’s your destination. There’s no sleeping there… she’s imagination.”

       He falls silent as the faces of the fans light up the screen, leaving Edge to sing “She is the dreamer… she’s imagination…”

       Things begin to get quieter as the song starts fading out. MacPhisto grips the microphone, breathing, “Midnight is where the day begins… midnight is where the day begins… midnight…”

       All instrumentals drop, except for one- Adam’s swaggering bass, turned from a soothing line to something that rips my heart out, makes me want to fall to my knees. All of a sudden, MacPhisto is changed too. His eyes have turned sad, broken, and his mouth is set differently, turning into a frown.

       “See the stone set in your eyes…”

       Every night this song takes on one meaning- MacPhisto is unable to live with our without the fame, the rock star excess of touring and heavy partying, and most of all, the fans. He faces the fact that he’s about to hit rock bottom every night, clinging onto the shred of hope that someone still loves him. However, everything feels different tonight. It isn’t that MacPhisto seems distracted, not part of the song- it’s that instead of focusing on himself, turning away from the fans as he usually does, MacPhisto aims the words at them, staring out in their directions. I breathe deeply to contain myself.

       At the very climax of the song, the “OOOOOOHHHH OHHHH OH OHHHHHH’s”, MacPhisto is still facing the audience, and tears are leaking down my cheeks, but not because the song is sad- it’s because I want him, I want MacPhisto, I want to go out there and comfort him and take him home with me. And yet I can’t have him- a conundrum, presented obviously in the lyrics of the song- _I can’t live with or without you._

As MacPhisto turns away from the stage, his eyes catch on me. I shiver and freeze, unable to move. The expression is something I’ve never seen before from him. It’s not begging for the audience to love him, and it’s not despair that they don’t. It’s not even like the Oslo show, where MacPhisto was out of his body in the emotional depths. No, tonight I realize what exactly has happened- MacPhisto has always, despite what I imagine, been Bono acting underneath. And finally, Bono no longer has to act. He looks so depressed and torn that I think he’s going to cry. Instead, MacPhisto pulls the microphone to his mouth and out stagger the words, “And you give. And you give. And you give. And you give… and you give, and you give, and you give, and you give… _With or without you.”_ Finally he turns his eyes- but not his body- back to the fans. “ _WITH OR WITHOUT YOU, MY LOVE! I can’t liiiiiiiive with or without you!”_

His head falls to his chest.

       “With or withoooouut… you…”

       I’m in pain on the outside, but on the inside, my mind has started puzzling. The only performance that MacPhisto and I have shared such great emotion during was Oslo, Norway, and that was only because of the failed speech and our dance together. Now I’m backstage, tucked away where no one can see me, and MacPhisto is out there, not even pretending to be torn apart- he truly is in pain. First I think _What a great first Zoomerang performance,_ but my mind still wants to work it out. Is there something on Bono’s mind that he can’t shake off for the performance’s sake?

       Onstage, U2 has reached their emotional climax in the show and MacPhisto is circling a girl around the stage, to the amazement of the fans. I stare past my tears into the darkness of the night, out at the B stage. Something is different. The girl MacPhisto is holding has her hands all over him, and he doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes are shut, head lolling on top of her head. If there was no musical accompaniment, this would look awkward. But Edge’s solo distracts the fans from the dance with the Devil. Just before it ends, MacPhisto snaps his eyes open, staring in my direction. He tightens his grip on the girl and removes her grabbing hands before she can, eyes never leaving my direction. It scares me, but my soul quiets when he sings the last lines to me- “Love is blindness, I don’t wanna see. Won’t you wrap the night around me? Take my heart… Blindness.” Purposefully, MacPhisto bends down to kiss his dance partner’s cheek, finally averting his gaze from me. And for the finale of the show, he sings Can’t Help Falling In Love in my direction.

     I go to the dressing room when the show’s well over, but no one answers my knock. I hit the door again, smacking my palms against it to produce a louder sound, but the response is in Bono’s weary Irish accent- “Marieke, if that’s you I don’t want you in here. Please leave me alone.” His voice is filled with so much desperation on that last sentence that at first I almost enter despite his wishes, but choose against it at the last moment. If Bono doesn’t want me in there, he doesn’t want me in there. Walking away, my whole mind is preoccupied with deciphering MacPhisto’s- no, Bono’s- movements onstage. Could it be proof of Larry’s tale? MacPhisto loves me. Bono must love me too.

       I pass Jack in the hallway. He doesn’t acknowledge me. I start to say something to him, but turn it into a cough at the last moment. I’m still not sure how I feel about Jack after my outburst at lunch today. Maybe this is the end of our friendship.

       Inside the dressing room, Bono stares at himself in MacPhisto’s mirror for the longest time. Was inviting Marieke to continue on the Zoomerang leg a wise decision? Bono runs his hands over his face, exhausted. She’s definitely a female distraction, and the sad thing is, he’s taking the bait. Where has his love for Ali gone- out the door? Of course not- she’s still in Dublin, taking care of the produce of their love. Bono can’t see her when she’s so far away. But that’s no reason to take Marieke to his bed in her place.

       At the nightclubs in Melbourne, there is no sign of Marieke. She’s gone to bed at the hotel. Bono’s heart hurts. He calls it quits early in the evening, something unlike him. While Bono rides a taxi back to the hotel, plagued by strange half-memories that feel unreal, Marieke sleeps, living the life she wants in her dreams. Her nightly world consists of Bono and herself, and no other intruders.


	40. The Kiss

       The tour destinations Down Under consist of dates. First and foremost are the literal dates, the types that people go on, and Edge and Morleigh are usually the subject of these. I am overjoyed for Morleigh when she tells me about her official relationship with Edge, and it now makes me thrilled when I see her and her new boyfriend holding hands together.

       There are also the anniversary type of dates that I like to keep track of. Before U2 ascends the stage in Brisbane for soundcheck, Bono suddenly speaks up, saying, “Two years ago today we released Achtung Baby.” This leads to a speculation of what they’ll be doing two years _from_ today. I hope it’s something that involves me. That night MacPhisto’s eyes stare at me from onstage, and I long to be sitting in the audience like a true fan.

       I definitely can’t forget the setting of dates, such as Larry’s big wedding day. He and Ann have decided that they want to get married once the tour ends, possibly during the Christmas holidays. I try to ignore the smallest seed of jealousy that grows in the pit of my stomach. It shouldn’t even be there in the first place. I love Bono only. But when Larry looks me in the eye, I feel his hands slide across my body, a phantom sense of that shared night we had together.

       Lastly, there are the making of dates we will never forget. I know that after twenty years, I’m always going to remember the first show in Sydney. It starts when I wake up in the morning of the 26th of November, ready to go eat breakfast on my own. I crawl out of my hotel room- and there’s Edge, rapping loudly on a door with an annoyed look on his face. I walk over to him.

     “Morning, de Rand.”

       “Goedemorgen, Marieke,” Edge tells me absentmindedly, worry crossing his countenance. “Say, have you seen Adam at all this morning?”

     “No, I just woke up,” I tell him. “Why? Isn’t that his room?”

       “Well, yes, it is,” Edge says. “My room is right beside this one. Em, I heard him come in at this ungodly hour last night. He was the last one of us to turn in, and now he’s not answering the door.”

       “Maybe he’s still sleeping if he was up for that long,” I say. “Or maybe he’s already gone to get breakfast. Edge, you shouldn’t worry.”

       “I’m trying not to,” Edge says, “but-“

     “Is Adam out yet?” I didn’t even notice Morleigh coming down the hall until now. She looks energized- maybe she’s just gone out for a walk and had breakfast on the way.

       “No,” Edge tells her as she weaves her fingers through his and bids hello to me. “I’m getting worried.”

       “Well, we heard him return to his room,” Morleigh says. “He’s probably sleeping!” Dang, my thoughts exactly. Morleigh continues, “It was a long night- I’m sure he’s just in there catching some Z’s.”

       “I hope you’re right,” Edge says. “I didn’t see him much last night, but he didn’t seem to be enjoying himself.” This is where I sneak away, thoughtfully saying goodbye to the couple. There’s no use in waiting to see if Adam will escape from his room- and definitely no reason for worry.

       Downstairs in the breakfast hall, there’s no sign of the elusive bassist, but no alarm bells go off in my head. Morleigh was probably right that Adam’s still asleep. I grab myself some breakfast- and, sitting down to eat it, I accidentally find myself eavesdropping on some crew members nearby.

       “…and he was looking pretty bad. Like, totally stoned. Couldn’t remember my name, or even his, for that matter.”

       “Damn. I hope he’s recovered for tonight.”

       “So Adam plays the gig drunk tonight. What’s new?”                                    

       “It just looks to me like he’ll have a nasty hangover when he wakes up…”

       “What?” I blurt, cutting into the conversation. “Is Adam okay?”

       The crewmen turn to me. “No,” says one, holding up his hands. “He was out all night. I actually came downstairs for breakfast when he was coming up. He’s in a horrible shape.”

       “Oh no…” I breathe. “What brought it on?”

       The crewman shrugs. “Can’t be sure. Though I did hear that Naomi has started seeing someone else…”

       “I thought that was just a rumor!” I gasp. They’re engaged, for the love of God. Naomi can’t have moved on!

       Shrugging once more, the crewman says, “That’s just my assumption.”

       “Has anyone notified the band yet?” I ask.

      Even as these words slide from my mouth, I see a figure move out of the corner of my eye, rising from his table. He crosses the room, a black-leather creature, and comes to a halt at the foot of Edge and Morleigh, who have descended to this floor.

        “Good morning,” Bono says, ruffling his hair.

       “Bono, there’s something you need to know,” Edge says. “Adam hasn’t come out of his room yet.”

       My feet direct me over to the conversation. “And someone over there said that Adam’s out cold. He went on a drinking binge last night because Naomi broke up with him.”

       “What?” Bono blurts. “Marieke, are you sure?”

       “I don’t know,” I say. “That’s what they told me.”

     “Oh God…” Bono stares at Edge. “Did you know anything about this?”

       “Not about Naomi,” Edge replies. “All I knew was that Adam came back here in the wee small hours of the morning. I heard him crash into bed in the room next to me.”

       “Edge and I went to investigate this morning because we were worried,” Morleigh offers. “Marieke was there too. We knocked on Adam’s door. He didn’t respond, no matter how long we waited.”

       Bono gazes from face to face, and I catch myself admiring his face- _stupid! It isn’t the time for that now!_ “Does anyone know where Larry is?”

       “I’m here,” the low voice calls, just in time, and my eyes drift a little to spot Larry making his way towards the impromptu band meeting. “What’s wrong?”

       Edge repeats the story about Adam. Bono and Larry exchange dismayed looks. “I don’t know if those rumors about Naomi seeing someone else are true, but Adam sure believes it,” Bono states.

       “Did any of you notice him when we went out last night?” Edge asks. Morleigh, Larry, Bono, and I all shake our heads. “I guess none of us thought to wonder where he was…”

       “Well, I’m going up there,” Larry announces. “We need to see what kind of a state Adam is in before doing anything.” Bono and Edge agree to join him, and I end up tagging along. The same thought is prevalent on each of our minds- will the show tonight go on?

       Riding in the elevator, I reflect on the big day this is- or was- to be. Though the Triplecast idea has been shot down- it ended up being too hard to get together in the space of time- tomorrow night’s performance in Sydney is slated to be broadcast to the world, making tonight our rehearsal. Everyone needs to figure out what to do for the broadcast- where to have the cameras, what to show from different angles- and it’s placing a lot of stress on not only the crew but the band as well. The tense silence in the elevator speaks for itself. With Adam possibly unable to perform, how can this rehearsal go on?

       We exit the elevator and stroll along down the hall, making for Adam’s suite. Bono is the first to reach the door, and taps his knuckles against it. No answer.

       “I’ve tried that already,” Edge sighs. “Adam’s probably passed out. I know I heard him enter last night.”

       “We need a key,” Larry offers, and Bono dashes off to grab a member of the cleaning staff and cajole her into giving a way of entry. Typical Bono. I shake my head. Soon the key is in the lock and has been turned, and three members of U2 and I stumble into a large suite, nearly as impressive as Bono’s, to find what we’ve all expected- Adam passed out, still in his clothes, on the bed. I’m surprised he made it that far.

       The band members glance at each other. “Should we wake him up?” asks Bono.

       “I’ll do it,” Larry says, stepping forward- way ahead of us.

      It takes a while to rouse Adam from his alcohol-induced slumber, and when he is conscious he’s barely coherent- he doesn’t seem to recognize any of us. Pretty much the only thing he says that I can understand is “Leave me alone” in a slurred manner. Slowly, to our dismay, Adam’s eyes fall shut again.

       “Oh no,” breaks out of me. “Adam… get up!” I try to jostle him back to wakefulness, but it’s to no avail. Three-fourths of U2 share the unhappiness.

       Upon leaving the room, Larry blows air out of his cheeks. “That’s no performing condition.”

       “So what do we do?” Bono asks, and I’m not sure if he’s being rhetorical or not. None of us are able to figure it out. If Adam can’t play bass tonight, who will?

       One thing’s certain, though- “The show must go on,” Edge murmurs. “This is precious rehearsal time. We can’t afford to lose it.” Bidding goodbye to me, the thrown apart band wanders off to find someone to discuss this with.

       For a few moments I stand alone in the hall, thinking. If the show must go on, but Adam can’t perform, then there are only two candidates for the role of who can. The first choice is obvious- Stuart, Adam’s bass tech and my personal tutor, who knows even more about the bass guitar than Adam himself does. And then… well, then there’s me.

       Before I can pursue this thought further, though, a door opens a length down the hall and out comes a woman carrying a plastic garment bag, the type that would come back from a Laundromat. She stops in front of me. “Are you Marieke Lang?”

         “Yes,” I answer, remembering suddenly that I’d thrown some of my clothes out in a bag to go to the cleaner’s. I can’t stand wearing dirty clothing.

       “We have your clothes.” Strangely, the woman doesn’t seem very happy to be returning them. She hands me the plastic garment bag dead last. Hm. Being the biggest thing she’s carrying, I wonder why she didn’t just fork it over from the start? The woman’s eyes are apologetic as I take it.

       “There was an accident with your clothes in the washer,” she finally admits.

       My hands stop- “What?!”

       “The purple dress got shredded,” the woman tells me. She’s probably afraid I’ll want to sue. Working for U2 and all, I must be loaded from what they pay me. Little does she know…

       I open the garment bag and gingerly take out the dress, with a stone sinking in my stomach. The woman was right- its lower half is ripped up, miraculously leaving the top half intact. I stare at the woman, trying not to let my pain in losing my dress show. How am I going to seduce Bono now?

       Well, the garment can still be saved. No one knows about my expert seamstress skills. I send the woman on her way and, once she’s gone, run off to find a needle and some thread that closely matches the color of my ex-dress. Retiring to my room, I take out a pair of scissors and begin to work away.

       Soon enough, I am admiring my handiwork in the mirror. I’ve taken the skirt part off and fashioned in a built in bra, in case my bosom doesn’t support it, to create the first patent pending strapless tank top. It look good, but will it fit? My body should work, as the dress used to fit me, but after the retailoring I’ve done I might have accidentally tampered with the size.

       So I try it on, and it fits like a dream, as my former dress did. My creamy shoulders stand out against the purple fabric. I try walking and lifting my arms and the shirt doesn’t fall. It feels good enough, so I stroll out into the hall, ready to face the day with a grin, strapping on the silver bangle bracelet at the last moment.

                                         ***

       Soundcheck has to go on as surely as the show must, and U2- well, what’s left of them, anyway- struggles all throughout it. There is the clear problem of a missing bassist to help keep time and add the underlying beat of the song. Bono mumbles under his breath that he never knew how badly they needed Adam until he wasn’t here. Isn’t that just the way it usually is!

       When Marieke strides into Sydney Football Stadium, despite everything Bono can’t take his eyes off her. There are aspects of that purple dress she wore a few times, at Edge’s birthday party and in Lisbon, in her top. It’s even strapless. Bono catches himself wondering what’s beneath that top that can support it so we- NO. No. Don’t even go there… But it’s not as easy as it sounds. Her hips hold a certain swagger, swaying from side to side as her body rocks, and that silver bracelet clanks with every swing of her arms. When she’s close enough, Bono spies the rhinestones decorating her jeans- a present from Edge. Oh God.

       “Hey, Bono!” Marieke calls. Well, she sounds unusually perky. Bono is stressed enough already, and doesn’t need this damned woman to add to that. He tries not to growl under his breath when he asks her, “What do you want, Angel?”

       “The speech!” Her hand shoots out. Oh fuck, he’s forgotten about that. “What about it?”

     “I wrote it already,” Marieke tells him. “To take some of the pressure off you.” What a kind gesture- too bad it barely helps at all. Bono takes the offered paper and reads through it, grudgingly satisfied with what he finds. She’s reused a candidate for the phone call, but it doesn’t matter- that’s one thing done with.

         I travel underground and greet the crew, secretly hoping that Bono will get time to read and practice my speech thoroughly. After a while the performing begins again over our heads, with the band making it through one verse of Dirty Day before collapsing. Adam’s bass is sorely needed in that song, and it shows.

       Larry suddenly comes storming down into the underworld. “Forget it!” he rants. “We need Adam here!” I want him to come to me and calm down… and maybe ask if I want to stand in for bassist at tonight’s show… but he breezes past me without a glance. Neither Edge nor Bono slips down here, probably chatting as friends or bemoaning the loss of Adam onstage.

       “What are they going to do?” Stuart murmurs, sidling up beside me.

       I turn around to gaze at him, surprised. “Aren’t you going to do something about this? You play the bass. You can certainly play the show.”

       Stuart winces. “No, I can’t. I… I’m not used to being in the spotlight. Forgive me, Marieke, but I know I’d do badly if I even tried to play in front of a stadium full of people.”

       I’m aghast. “It’s not as bad as all that, Stu. I’ve been up there before. It’s quite entertaining. You know you’re the only one who can stand in for Adam tonight. Please, for the love of-“

       “You’re lying,” Stuart says quietly, cutting me off. “Marieke. I’m too nervous. I can’t do this for the band. But you can. I’ve seen you play bass backstage. Hell, I taught you; I know your skills. Marieke, you have to go out there and play the live show tonight, for me and for the band, including Adam.”

       I’m speechless. This is not a choice Stuart should be making… and yet, the temptation of being onstage yet again… of being up there with _Bono…_ is altogether too great to resist. Longing sweeps over me. I have to do this!

       But the words that my lips form are, “No, Stuart, it has to be you. I’m not good enough.”

     “Not good enough?” Stuart repeats, incredulous. He spreads his arms. “You are damn well good enough, Marieke, and you know that. You have what I don’t have- a natural affinity for onstage performing. This is all up to what the band decides, but it has to be you.”

       Okay, now we’re just shoving the duties onto each other. I give a slight nod but don’t respond. On the one hand, it would be my dream to perform onstage for real with U2. On the other, I’m afraid I don’t know enough about the bass to play an entire show, especially not the new inclusions from Zooropa, which I am still not proficient at, despite my creation of the Lemon/With or Without You bassline. And yet… the stage compels me. Bono compels me. I need to do this.

       I leave the stadium to clear my mind and grab something to eat. On the way out I pass Jack. He looks in my direction, but doesn’t offer to join me. I pretend I haven’t even seen him. He’s just another man after my body. It means nothing. And neither does the sight of Larry returning to the stage, blue eyes piercing me, trying to stop me in my tracks. The only sight that would matter to me now is Bono, coming to tell me that I am needed to play bass tonight, or to tell me something sweeter.

                                       ***

         Back at the stadium tonight, I sit down to eat dinner with Larry and Bill, who hold a discussion about marriage. “Larry, I thought you didn’t believe in this lovey dovey stuff, and now you’re engaged… what’s up with that?”

       Not taking his eyes from Bill’s face, but casting brief glances at me out of the corner of his eye, Larry responds. “Ann is a beautiful woman. We’ve been together for a few years now- I guess we were lovers in high school- and never once did I give a fuck about all this marriage junk. But then it hit me, just after we got back to Dublin- what if I come back from a tour one day and find dissatisfaction in her eyes, just like Aislinn and Edge? What if our relationship ends before it even begins? Something shook me up. I realized the value of marriage. I proposed to her that night, actually- no ring, hell, no clothes either.” He chuckles while I picture Larry without clothes from my memory. Not half-bad. His eyes speak to me, telling me that every word he’s said is true- though he’s failed to mention the role I played in his big decision.

       Bill brings up the fact that Larry has spoken recently about buying an apartment in New York in America after the tour, and Larry says he’s now thinking of moving in there with Ann after the wedding. I try not to look too jealous. Honestly, I don’t love Larry… but to see that he’s making major future plans with a woman who isn’t me, the woman who gave her virginity to him, it’s a little hard to feel happy for them. I hope he doesn’t invite me to the wedding.

       Just as I’m dumping my leftover food in the trash, Edge skitters in, grumbling about work and how he hasn’t gotten a chance to eat yet and a lot of other issues, interspersed with cursing. I nod noncommittally, spying Morleigh behind his back, and duck away while she sneaks up to relieve his mind. But I don’t get away fast enough to miss the phrase, “And there’s a band meeting in a few minutes, Lar.” No doubt they’re going to make the final decision on who should play bass for U2 tonight. I foolishly pray it’s going to be me.

       True to what I’ve expected, Morleigh does relieve Edge’s mind, and he’s happy and laughing by the time he and Larry leave to meet with Bono and Paul. Larry sweeps past me without much of a glance, but his proximity to me makes me swallow hard. That man…

         My heart beats, waiting for the outcome of the band meeting. To take my mind off it, I go over to Morleigh and we make small talk. She tells me about how her relationship with Edge is going, while I burn secretly with longing to date a member of U2. Finally I can’t stand it and go out to find out where the band is- and that’s when Bono appears, almost out of nowhere, making a beeline for… Stuart. The bass technician looks surprised, and his eyebrows droop when Bono wraps an arm around him and declares, “You’ve been chosen for the opportunity of a lifetime, Stu! You’re going to play onstage with us!”

       I am engulfed in grief that it isn’t me. Stuart doesn’t look happy in the least bit at this prospect. He glances at me, opens his mouth- and I just know he’s going to recommend me.

       “Okay, I’ll do it.”

       WHAT?!

       “Yes! Thank you, Stuart, no one else could have done it,” Bono says, removing his arm from around Stuart’s shoulders. Growing inside me is a howl of frustration. Stuart slides up to me as soon as the band is gone, embarrassed.

       “Marieke, I’m sorry, I lost my head. Believe me, I don’t really want to do this. I’d gladly give up my chance for you to be under the spotlight.” Damn, this guy really is shy.

         “It’s okay,” I sigh. “A woman onstage with U2 would have looked too odd to ignore anyway.”

       Stuart sticks his hands in his pockets awkwardly. “Well… I guess I’ll go practice,” he says, faltering back a bit and finally leaving. I sigh once more and go up from the underground to watch the opening acts.

         U2 starts off well, but it’s clear that the fans are a bit confused as to why Stuart is present. He himself looks terribly nervous, keeping his eyes on Edge. The Fly hams it up when explaining about the gig- “This is the first show we’ve ever played without Adam! Adam is very sick! So let me introduce you to Stuart Morgan- Adam’s mentor!” He cracks a grin, pointing at Stuart, who peers worriedly at the crowd, as if afraid one of them will start booing. I’m disappointed, because I know I could do better.

       However, despite the original rough start, Stuart ends up rocking the hell out of his bass. This is evident in the Zooropa track Dirty Day, which, despite receiving little rehearsal attention by Stuart and me, showcases his utter talent in playing. It begins as soon as Satellite of Love ends, and Bono and Edge stroll back down to the main stage. Edge’s guitar begins the song, driving out those haunting notes that I love so. Stuart’s bass follows hauntingly.

         “I don’t know you… and you don’t know the half of it,” Bono tells the audience and me. Under the dimmed stage lights, he looks positively menacing. “I had the starring role… I was the bad guy who walked out.” Well, there you go.

       Bono’s eyes shut halfway. “They say be careful where you aim, cause where you aim, you just might hit… You can hold on to something so tight, you’ve already lost it.” I know the feeling. His voice turns heavenly- okay, when is it not, but it’s specifically beautiful now- on the next line, sung in a half-falsetto. “Dragging me down, that’s not the way it used to be! You can’t even remember what I’m trying to forget.”

     The band kicks in, with loud drums and a violent guitar, and I rock out in place while Bono pretends to strum his guitar. The lights start flashing, only to switch off as Bono sings, “It was a dirty day…” At once the other instruments fade into the background. “Yeah, a dirty day…

       “Been looking for explanations, things I don’t even understand.” This song always used to confuse me with its lyrics, but somehow I get the meaning clearly tonight. I can almost relate. Bono seems to be singing the song to someone specifically, almost like an old lover who keeps turning up, haunting him from the past no matter how badly he wishes she would die.

       “If you need someone to blame, hey, throw a rock in the air, you’re bound to hit someone guilty!” Now he’s warding off the lover, telling her it wasn’t just his fault that their relationship ended- it could have been anyone. An organ synthesizer sounds its notes.

       “From father to son…” Bono sings. “In one life, it has begun…” I take from those lines that men will be men. Affairs happen. Edge looks to cue Stuart in to the next chord change. “A work that’s never done…” Bono’s fingers stroke the next of his black guitar. His mouth is unbearably close to the microphone as he murmurs, “Father to son.”

      All is silent until Edge’s high falsetto pierces the air, responding to Bono’s words. “Love, it won’t last kissing time… love… won’t last kissing time…”

       “Get it right,” Bono moans. “There’s no blood thicker than ink.” I strain my ears to listen to his next line, delivered at the exact right time- “Hear what I say- nothing’s as simple as you think.” The ghost of a smile plays against his face. I can tell Edge and Stuart are gearing up for something big and bad as Bono whispers, “Wake up…” He plucks the strings of his guitar, creating a dismal, murky sound, and his voice rises in pitch at once. “Some things you can’t get around! I’m in you-“ I wish you were- “more so when they put me in the ground…” Edge’s guitar gnashes several times before kicking into the instrumental break, driven by Larry’s drums.

       The lights go haywire and start strobing, flashing on and off with their white glow. The full band rocks out again, each one of them looking dark and badass, even Stuart. They don’t let the song go on for long before Edge and Bono come in, singing together, “Those days, days, days run away like horses over the hill! Those days, days, days run away like horses over the hill! Those days, days, days, run away like horses over the hill! Those days, days, days…”

       Finally the song crashes to a halt, ending as it began- quietly. Bono runs his finger across the guitar strings, and those pained notes slide out with a metallic sound. He grips the microphone with both hands and all instruments drop as he sings, “Loooove… won’t last kissing time… Love… it won’t last kissing time… love-“

       Bullet The Blue Sky crashes into town. I know what Lina would say, but I think I like this song more than Bad as a lead-in to Bullet.

       At the end of the show, Stuart looks relaxed. He thunks out Pride as greatly as Adam would, bobbing his head up and down. Once the song ends, Bono motions him over and wraps his arm around Stuart’s shoulder, throwing his hand up in the air. “Stuart Morgan, ladies and gentlemen!” Bono calls, and Stuart breaks into a grin.

       I’ve accepted my place as not being able to play bass with U2 tonight. However, as soon as I see that gesture onstage, my heart twists in envy. I want to be onstage and interact with Bono. I want to play bass for U2. Most of all, I realize as I walk backstage to dress the Devil, I want to be beside MacPhisto as he goes through the nightly emotional journey. I want a better view of the emotions scrawling across his face through each song.

       “Stuart,” I murmur when both he and I have a free space of time. “I want to play bass during the encores.”

       He doesn’t even look at me to respond. “You can’t now, Marieke. The audience saw me onstage- me, as replacement bassist for Adam. They won’t accept you! Do you want to confuse U2’s fans?”

       Yes, I do want to U2’s fans. I want to fuck up the mainstream like the band they so worship does. I want to be a part of this Zoo TV insanity, this idea of purposefully conflicting the audience and making them decide what they believe in. _And I want MacPhisto._ I voice these thoughts on my face, staring at Stuart until he finally submits.

       “Marieke, you can’t always get what you want, you know.”

       I can practically see his resolve weakening. “But, I can get what I need.”

     “This is not what you need.”

       “No!” Frustrated, I lash out at him. “I need this!” I swipe the bass from Stuart’s hands before he can protest, and dash off to join the band. I can hear Stuart pelting after me, and suddenly there’s a crash behind me. Stuart lets out a cry- he must have fallen down in pursuit. Well, now he can’t go back onstage anyway. I catch up to the half of the band available, who have changed into their blue suits.

       Edge is the first to spot me. “Marieke, what are you doing here?’

       “Performing,” I say. “Stuart fell down. He can’t play anymore.” Okay, so that’s most definitely a lie- the fall couldn’t have been that bad- but anything to get me onstage.

     Larry stares at me. “Are you going to perform in that?” I look at my outfit he’s referring to- my bedazzled Edge jeans and purple strapless tank top. In response, I shrug. “It looks Zoo.”

     The drummer and the guitarist exchange glances. They know this is risky. But neither of them question me or my motives. At once Edge whispers, “We’re on!” and the crewmen herd us onstage. I have to struggle my way through them, as they don’t believe I’m supposed to be here, but I convince them to let me by and follow Edge and Larry, feeling something surge within me that I’ve never felt before. I caught a glimpse of it onstage in Turin, but that performance was fraught with nervousness. This time, adrenaline races through the veins beneath my thin skin, filling each limb with energy. As soon as I’m standing on the darkened stage, hearing the screams of U2 fans, I realize this is where I belong, now and forever.

       The Zoo baby onscreen has just finished singing opera. I look over to Edge to see when we begin the song. He in turn is looking at Larry, who counts us in, and strikes his drums. Edge nods his head towards me for a split second, and turns to his instrument, the guitar, producing weird noises from it. I place my hands on the bass- and freeze. For a second I’ve gotten stage fright.

       However, the fans urge me on. I can hear them accepting me with their cheers, and from their support I recall the bassline for Daddy’s Gonna Pay For Your Crashed Car and begin to pluck it out as the lights swing on. Every face is illuminated in the front row. I don’t care to see any further than that- well, maybe out to the B stage… A few people are staring at me- confused, I can tell, of my presence here- but the majority of the crowd is screaming as MacPhisto appears onscreen behind me. Damn that I can’t turn around and see him!

       I hear singing, amplified form backstage- “You’re a precious stone, you’re out on your own…” Excitement builds in my throat as I jam. Edge keeps his eyes on me so as to alert me to any changes in the song, but I don’t need any help. Sooner or later my man is going to have to show up.

       And he does. My first glimpse of him is backstage, flinging his arms towards the audience and bowing. I know it’s better for me if I don’t look, so as to preserve my focus, but my eyes won’t let me turn away. MacPhisto saunters up onstage and the crowd goes wild, as do I- secretly, of course, insidehead. He screams into the microphone, “Daddy’s gonna paaaayyyyyyyyeeeah!”

       OH! How beautiful this is, to be onstage with the only man I can love in this world! My hips break into a dance as the low notes of the bass thrum through me, firing up my pleasure. I don’t look away from MacPhisto for anything in my life, just happy to watch that gold blur move. A warning voice chimes in my head- _Don’t let your emotions get out of hand… don’t move towards him… don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t DO IT…_ I can’t obey the voice. I have to touch him. Do it? Does my mind mean to do… that? Dollars rain down on my head, and, abruptly, the song is over. I blink, coming to, surfacing. What just happened?

       MacPhisto applauds himself. At that moment I feel a huge surge of wanting come through me. It’s never been this bad before- not onstage in Turin, not when Bono kissed me, nothing like the lust that normally overcomes me when he’s nearby. No, now I’m drowning in it, unable to focus on anything sane. All I know is, I WANT MACPHISTO.

       “Thank you, thank you,” the Devil sighs. “Now we’ve had a mishap backstage. Stuart is broken! There must be a curse in the air!”

       He swaggers over to me and takes a hold of my shoulder. Fireworks go off beneath my skin.

       “Our backup-backup bassist is Marieke Lang,” MacPhisto announces in that British accent… “She’s a student of Stuart!” I try to smile at the crowd- they applaud in response- but inside I’m going crazy. MacPhisto’s face leans closer and closer to me, and I force my tongue inside my cheeks, nails digging into my palms. My mouth is dry. I can feel that without MacPhisto at my side, I’m going to fall over.

       He pulls away from me and smiles at the crowd, walking back to the mic- and for a second, I catch something in his eyes, something I haven’t seen before the third song in the encore set- twisted, tortured pain, a longing to drag himself back over to me. Quickly it’s gone, but I can’t shake what I’ve just seen- MacPhisto w _ants_ me. He wants me as badly as I want him. The revelation isn’t shocking or dispositioning.

       After the ritual “I know you like your pop stars to be exciting” preliminaries, MacPhisto steps back and announces “Quite a spectacle, Zoo TV, isn’t it? Costs a fucking fortune.” I would have to remind myself not to laugh, but instead I try to remember to breathe. I feel so exposed underneath these bright stage lights. Everyone is staring at me, even the cameras, which avoided Stuart like the plague. How can they not focus on me- a woman playing bass for U2, and a very beautiful woman at that?

       MacPhisto speaks again, and my thoughts are pulled from myself to him, and back to myself as I try to keep control. “I’d just like to say, I’m very disappointed by the way you’re treating to Monarchy… I believe that it’s a shame, and I would like to say, as an Englishman, that… I used to babysit the Queen and I’m personal friends with the Queen Mother whom you tried to kill off the other day!”

       The call is attempted to go Lady Diana, but somewhere along the line things get mixed up…

     “Hello possum! How a _re_ you darling?” a woman chirps. MacPhisto is visibly startled- could it be an old lover?

       “I was looking for… Lady Diana or the Queen Mother. Wh-Who’s this?” He truly does sound frightened.

       “This is Dame Edna here, you naughty little devil!” Jealousy overwhelms me. How dare she flirt with my man?

       And even worse than that, she’s very sharp. “How did you get my number? Only Lenny Kravitz has got my number!” MacPhisto is taken aback by the joke, and manages to come up with, “I borrowed his suit and it was left in the pocket actually.”

       And, she’s a U2 fan! “I was at the zoo today, darling! I thought of your beautiful album, Zooropa!” With each more word of praise I want even more to rip the phone from MacPhisto’s hand. Come to _me…_

       At last the Devil hangs up- “Au revoir!” Edge looks over to me, and I reluctantly tear my gaze off the man who’s causing my demise as we kick into Lemon, sirens blaring. MacPhisto spins around in a circle, and even though the lovely bassline of Lemon should be distracting me, it’s taken second place in my mind to MacPhisto’s antics. God. My teeth are steel on my lip, trying to bring concentration on the music… trying not to run over there and do God knows what…

       “Midnight…. Midniiiight…. Midnight is where the day begins!”

       MacPhisto dances down to the B-stage, facing the camera, and I breathe a long sigh of relief. Now that he’s so far away, I can focus on the bass in peace. It doesn’t last long, however. Still facing the audience, MacPhisto sings in a soft voice, “Midnight is where the day begins…” I take my cue from Edge and, as soon as MacPhisto finishes with “Midniiight,” transform Lemon into With or Without You, just letting loose on my emotions. The audience seems to draw in a collective breath- or is it my imagination?

       “See the stone set in your eyes…” MacPhisto whimpers. “See the thorn twist in your side… I wait for you…”

     Every single word is echoed in my head. This song is claimed by not only MacPhisto, but me as well, how I feel about him and Bono. Even MacPhisto’s plight with the fans has taken a backseat to his wanting me, of not being able to live with or without me. He sings heartbreakingly, staring into the camera, and at the “OOOOH” climax, faces me with bent hands, fingers clutching the microphone instead of my flesh. I can feel his anguish, and share it unpleasantly. We want each other, but can’t do anything about it.

       I am out of my mind for Love Is Blindness, drowning on desperation. MacPhisto pulls a girl from the audience and tries to take his longing out on her, provoking her with his hands until she, a well-behaved type, has to respond and presses her face in his neck, but as he twirls around I can see it’s not enough. He needs the woman standing stage left, and I need him too. His voice rises and falls, telling me that love is blindness.

       MacPhisto returns the girl to her seat, and Edge begins to play guitar for one last piece. Larry has already disappeared, slipping into the underworld to chill, but I decide I need to stay onstage. I slip behind a corner and peek out, watching MacPhisto. He looks as if he can’t wait to be done with this ruse of a song. I swallow hard to keep my heart from climbing up my throat and calling to him. Once the song’s done, MacPhisto tears across the stage, dashing towards me. We have just enough time before the coast is clear and MacPhisto’s lips are upon me, kissing me strongly.

       I wrap my arms around MacPhisto immediately and grind against him, dying to have him inside me. The world fades into a blur, and his hands explore beneath my shirt, unhooking my bra- At once MacPhisto’s lips are off of me. _Why?_ He moans under his breath, grabs my hand, and tugs me fleetly through the night. We end up inside his dressing room, where no soul has yet entered.

       MacPhisto grabs the key off the dressing table and locks both doors with it. I’m standing in the middle of the room, trembling, inflicted with the heady scent of lust. We meet in the middle and collide on the floor, his hands lifting my tank top up, tearing the ready-made stitches- well, it was good while it lasted- while mine slip beneath his waistband, ready for MacPhisto to quench his thirst of me.

       The gold jacket, now on the floor, becomes a cushion for my body as MacPhisto wraps one leg around my waist, kissing me furiously. My clothes have ripped and fallen off my body, and I have no problem unbuttoning his shirt and letting my hands wander against the curls of chest hair that I find there. He penetrates my body, making me gasp. Goosebumps stand up on my skin, despite my entire body being aflame. His teeth graze my earlobe, pushing into me, and I finally get the chance to stick my tongue through his earring loop, my back stretching and straightening with a moan of pleasure.

       I can’t even tell who’s fucking me now- is it MacPhisto or Bono? Who the _hell_ cares. His body is warm inside me, hips swinging- I never, ever thought I would get the honor of feeling this. We move in rhythm, my body responding to the deeper primal instincts of humanity. Something big is building inside of me, some deep and dark need that’s clawing to come out… He curls his fingers over my spine, clinging with a death grip as if trying to rip my skin open.

       I can hear each gasp taken through his mouth, feel every breath of his expelled, hot and fast, on my neck. I hear his moans, and hope he’s getting all he expected from me. And I scream- I can’t help it. My head whips back, hair lashing in my face, and the sound tears from my very soul, back arching, spine tingling. For a moment I’m out of it, floating high above my body as my muscles clench, taking over, knowing what to do. Shivers run up and down my body, and beneath my fingers his skin twitches and rolls. And as suddenly as it’s begun, I’m slammed back into my body, heart pumping, both of us exhausted and trying to catch our breath on the floor. I feel the need to point out that MacPhisto’s makeup is smudged. It seems silly, as that’s probably not the only thing out of place.

       Separated again, I cry out for being alone. This seems to rouse something in him. “Are you in pain?” I shake my head, getting to my knees to search for my clothing. The hastily-sewed purple tank top is in rags. I replace my bra, underwear, and jeans. Without looking at me, he hands me a gray shirt- it’s Bono-sized, but it will do. I turn to kiss him goodbye, but he’s already across the room, dressed and ready to go out the door. Oh well. So we’ll talk tomorrow. My body is alight, ecstatic. I run out the back way, walking on air.

       “What _took_ you so long?” Larry questions. “We’ve been waiting since the show ended.”

       Bono runs his hand through his hair. “Oh, nothing.” He feels fragile, as if one touch will break him.

       “I’m not feeling well,” he mumbles, pushing his way through Edge and Larry.

       “There really must be a curse on Sydney,” Edge says. Bono can’t speak. He only shrugs a little, thinking _Just get outside. Just get home._

“Hey, wait,” Edge calls, sounding confused. “Aren’t you going to help us edit the footage from tonight? We need to see how the broadcast will work for tomorrow.”

       Bono shakes his head without turning around. “No, I… I really don’t feel up to it. You know what I like, Edge. You and Larry will review the footage fine without me.”

       “Feel better,” Edge says, concerned.

Before Bono’s out of earshot, Larry is heard to remark to Edge, “I wonder what that scream was?” He recognizes the scream- it comes from Marieke, no less. What went on in the dressing room?

       Bono turns pale. He thinks if he doesn’t get away, he’ll honestly be sick, very soon.


	41. Gone

       Bono requests a private taxi ride, and all through it he keeps his head between his knees, trying not to go completely crazy, or throw up, or break into sobs. Some powerful emotion rages inside of him. He feels defiled, completely wasted. When the ride’s over Bono pays the driver handsomely, rushing into the hotel before prying eyes can see that he’s not fine.

       Up in his suite, Bono closes himself into the bathroom and turns the hot water up. He curls into a ball on the cold porcelain floor. _No, no, no, no, no…_ Tears rise up from the churning pain within him. Bono rocks, trying to wrap his mind around this huge and horrible thing- he had sex with Marieke. He. Had. Sex. With. Marieke. _For the love of God, he had sex with Marieke._ There can be no forgiving now. What was he _thinking?!_

After a while Bono crawls into the shower, unclothed, and lets the warm water soak into his skin. He hopes it will take both the filth from his shameful excursion and the lasting pain and send them on their ways down the drain. But though the water outwardly cleanses, the inside of Bono is stained with remembrance. Despite his great lyricism, words completely fail him to describe this experience. The emotions within Bono demand a way out, words or no words. He howls, a black sound, obvious regret tingeing it. The noise echoes, bouncing back to Bono’s ears, but it does little to nothing to relieve his internal torment.

       The water grows cold, so Bono shuts it off- _you don’t want your hair to turn brown again, do you?-_ and, wrapping a towel around himself, falls into bed. He reaches for a pen and paper and starts scratching lyrics, but they’re erased by the droplets that plash from his wet hair. Eventually Bono gives up and buries himself beneath the covers, a cold feeling taking over every limb. He tries to feel nothing until morning comes.

                                           ***

       I just barely keep myself from going out tonight, because I know the alcohol I drink will make me sensible. The thing is, I don’t _want_ to be sensible. I don’t want to come down off this high. Skipping through the doors of the lobby, I have barely enough willpower to keep me from shouting to the world that I just had sex with Bono. I. Had. Sex. With. Bono!

       Inside my hotel room, next to Edge’s, I dance around in a circle. My hands clasp, rise above my head, and I turn around in a circle, spinning. My silver bracelet is gone, but that’s the very least of my concerns. A few times I bounce up and down, just for heck of it. How can I even think of going to bed when something this wonderful has happened? Bono loves me. He must love me! Why else would he have taken me to the dressing room and done what he did?

       My heart beating quickly, I speed to the window and open it up. The moon is bright and round, shedding its light on my skin. I shriek with joy, feeling high above the world. Tonight, it doesn’t occur to me that if I jump, I fall. Tonight, I know that the breeze will carry me away, high as a kite.

       Tears of happiness flow down my face. I leap onto the bed and bury my face in the pillow and scream, just as I screamed tonight in Bono’s arms. My hands pull my clothes away from me, and I lie against the sheets, suddenly feeling the need to recreate those sensations Bono has opened my mind to. I was right- he is _much_ better at it than Larry.

       My fingers slip inside me, feeling around just as Bono had in the dressing room. I press down on my skin, massaging it, bringing the waves of pleasure that I have only felt twice in my life. I work my knuckles into it, and with my free hand stroke my spine. The soft moans that escape me sound just like tonight, if I close my eyes and pretend my hand is another body part and belongs to Bono. Finally my efforts pay off, and I get another orgasm- not as sweet as the ones Larry and Bono have given me in the past, but enough to relax me for sleep.

       With the warm feeling taking over my whole body, satisfying me, I close my eyes and bob away, barely tethered to Earth. Up in the clouds, my body is once again given to Bono, and we stay together for the length of one night, until the sun wakes me up bright and early in the morning. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

                                           ***

       “Marieke, what were you thinking last night?”

       I flash Stuart a level stare. It’s not like him to lose his temper, but now he’s struggling to keep control. I suppose it was quite childish of me to tell everyone he was injured from the fall and couldn’t perform, but for all I knew it could have been true. Besides, my performance onstage gave me something better than the love of the crowd- the love of Bono himself.

       “I’m sorry Stu,” I sigh. “It’s just- that stage draws me in with an irresistible pull, you know? It’s not like the stage fright you suffer. I had to be up there. Besides, I think I did a great job of fucking up the mainstream, eh?”

       “You’re not one to do that,” he shoots back. “You’re not allowed to take matters like this into your own hands. U2 chose _me_ to play bass last night, not you.”

       I shrug, and he silently stalks off. I guess I won’t be seeing much more of him after today.

       Adam has returned to the Zoo TV stage, looking a bit weak but sure of himself. He thanks me heartily for taking his place for the encores, and I smile. I see he’s still got his engagement ring on. Have he and Naomi really broken up? My curiosity over this, however, must be suspended in my curiosity over something more important- where is Bono? He hasn’t shown up at the Sydney Football Stadium yet, and I’m beginning to worry that it’s because of something I did last night.

       Bono is, in fact, still in bed. He doesn’t think he can ever leave it. His whole body feels to be made of concrete. Bono lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, a few crumpled papers strewn over the covers. Taking them up, Bono unfolds the papers and reads the words written on them from last night, scrawled deeply with a black pen into an indecipherable mess. Only one word stands out starkly. GONE. Bono throws the paper to the ground and blinks. He tries hard not to think of it, but the lyrics from long ago well up in his brain- _If you wear that velvet dress…_

The sun enters Bono’s bedchamber, blinding him in the light. His hands grab the pen from under his pillow and pick up a new sheet of paper. Now that Bono’s mind is somewhat at rest, he can form thoughts, which in turn form lyrics. It’s time for Velvet Dress to be worn.

       _Sunlight fills my room_

_It’s sharp and clear, but nothing at all like the moon_

_The struggle for things not to say_

_I never listened to you- anyway_

_I’ve got my own hands to pay_

Something about that last word doesn’t seem right. Bono scratches it out and adds an “r” between the P and A. PRAY. I’ve got my own hands to pray.

       _But if you wear that velvet dress…_

She had, hadn’t she? Except it had been ripped into a shirt, which now is no longer even that… A new lyric swells in Bono’s mind. It doesn’t seem to fit with the rest of the song, so he flips the paper over and writes it on the back. _It looks like the sun, but it feels like the rain._ The truth of this line hits him hard.

       A knock sounds on Bono’s door. He tries to drag himself up to receive it, but the heaviness descends on him, so he falls back on the pillows and calls, “Come in.” The man who enters is familiar, with chocolate eyes staring from beneath chocolate hair.

       “Jack,” Bono says, and sighs, relieved that it isn’t Marieke. “What are you doing here?”

       “Well, I just came to inform you that if you don’t get down to the stadium you’ll miss soundcheck,” Jack says. “And Marieke is waiting for you, really impatient. I think she has a speech she wants to go over with you.”

       Oh God! Bono knows exactly what she wants to go over- and he isn’t _ready._ He doesn’t want to sit down and talk their night out when he’s still trying to figure out what it really meant- does he love Marieke or does he not? After last night, the question is serious. The deadline for its response has arrived all too soon, and all Bono wants to do is bury his head beneath the pillow and forget everything having to do with it.

       “I’ll be down there in a few minutes, Jack.” Jack nods and starts to turn around- and suddenly Bono can’t stand to be alone again. Falling out of bed, he picks himself up and gets dressed. “Jack, stay with me, please?”

       “Alright,” Jack says, noticing Bono’s nakedness- the towel that he had wrapped himself last night remains on the bed- and greedily feasts his eyes before Bono is fully clothed again. He hasn’t seen something like that in a _long_ time. “What kept you in so late? You’re looking a bit sluggish.”

       “Sick,” mumbles Bono. If he wants to argue, he can say this is the honest truth- he is sustaining an ankle injury from last night. Its pain pales in comparison to the shame of what he did with Marieke, however. “I went to bed early.”

       “Oh. I hope you feel better today,” Jack tells the singer. He offers an arm. “Let’s walk, shall we?”

       “Thanks, Jack,” Bono murmurs, closing the door behind him.

       Once in the elevator, Jack takes his arm out of Bono’s to punch in the floor number of the lobby. Bono takes this moment to size Jack up. He radiates a serene calm that Bono can’t help but envy. Why must this man be happy today while Bono can feel his own depression starting to sink in?

       And suddenly he remembers. Tonight is the planned broadcast to the world. Zoo TV will be watched on every U2 fan’s home TV, all hooked up to the same satellite. Bono is not only nervous that the band will fall apart after not rehearsing with Adam yesterday, but he also has to prepare for being filmed tonight. Why must they be doing this at such an inconvenient time? Bono isn’t sure which way it’s going to go with Marieke, and he knows that whatever happens, the show will be quite emotional tonight.

       As they walk out the doors to the lobby, Bono feels the need to ask Jack, “Have you and Marieke had a fight?”

         “Yeah,” Jack answers, looking out of the side of his eyes. “She didn’t like some advice I gave her, and hasn’t spoken to me since. She’s a volatile little bomb, that one. Doesn’t forgive easily, either- look what happened with Eric!”

       Wait. “Eric? What problem did she have with Eric?”

       Oh no… Jack realizes he’s spoken too much, as those who know him well, like Marieke, would say he does often. He tries to cover it with, “Oh, did I say Eric? It had nothing to do with Eric, believe me!”

       Bono is not fooled.

       “Tell me about Eric and Marieke, please. You don’t have to if it’s a secret.”

       Jack plunges in and tells the whole story- that on the band’s last date in London, Eric kissed Marieke without her consent out in the street and declared his love for her, where she spurned him, giving him a grudge to hold against her ever since. He also explains how at her birthday party, she was the one who kissed Eric first, hoping that Bono would walk in on them, which is exactly what happened. “She was betting on him getting kicked off the tour, just because he had kissed her that one time.”

       This is news to Bono. He has always suspected that Marieke’s story wasn’t quite true somewhere along the line, but he hadn’t known that Eric has been causing trouble from the very start. He should have left the tour earlier… But what’s done is done. Eric is gone, probably back in Florida where he belongs, and Marieke is here- conveniently here, in fact, for she’s just enough temptation for Bono to break his wedding vows.

         _Ali. Alison Hewson, I love you so much. Please forgive me for giving my body to Marieke. It doesn’t belong to her. It never did. I love you and only you._ Jack feels the shudder that runs through Bono’s body, followed by a deep sigh, but he doesn’t comment on it, instead sticking his arm straight out into the street. “Taxi!”

_***_

“Marieke, can we speak in private?”

       This isn’t the first time I’ve heard these words coming from Larry, so I allow him to take me aside, where I look at him skeptically, wondering what he could want.

         “This is going to sound- well, I don’t care how it sounds, I just have to tell you. Last night when I was waiting outside of Bono’s dressing room for him to come out and help us edit footage from last night’s show, I heard a female scream come from inside the dressing room. And- and I _know_ that scream, Marieke. It wasn’t a sound of pain, it was a sound of pleasure. And I’ve only heard it once- when you and I did it in my hotel room in London.” Larry looks questioningly at me, challenging me to tell him what that noise was.

       And I do. “After I got offstage last night, Mac- I mean, Bono- started kissing me. He couldn’t hold back. And you know how I feel about him- I didn’t stop it for the world. He took me to the dressing room, and-“ I try very hard to keep my voice from squeaking in excitement, but it does nonetheless- “we had sex!”

         Larry doesn’t look taken aback or angry. Instead, his eyes ice over.

         “You… what?”

       I repeat myself patiently. “We had sex.”

       All that comes from Larry’s mouth is, “Oh God…

       “Marieke. Are you… _sure_ that Bono loves you?”

       “Yes,” I breathe. “I mean, why would he have done that anyway? No offense, Lar, but it was a lot better than our night in London.”

       Larry doesn’t look offended, or even pained that I’ve mentioned it. “Have you seen Bono at all today? I haven’t.”

       “No,” I say. “And I was thinking he would come down here immediately to talk to me.”

       Larry shuffles on his feet, not meeting my eyes. “He’s probably conflicted. You know, he did just cheat on Ali…”

         “Oh, fuck Ali!” I cry. “He loves me. I know it. He needs to talk to me.”

       Larry doesn’t move. His eyes are still frozen.

         I smile in an attempt to loosen him up, and it feels so good after endless days of hope and patience wearing thin. Finally, I am certain of two things- Bono loves me as much as he loves Ali, and I do not love Larry. The small crush that has remained with me since London is gone, obliterated by Bono’s pairing with me.

       I throw my arms around Larry, a man carved of marble- perfect, rock-hard, and unchanging. “Larry, thank you for everything you’ve ever done for me- yes, including that,” I say. “I’ll always a place for you in my heart.” I peck his cheek.

         “Wait, Marieke,” Larry says, dazzling eyes staring unblinkingly into mine. “Don’t go yet…”

       I wait, a small flicker of annoyance popping up inside me. “What?”

       Larry seems incredibly uncomfortable. He knows now that it was a complete mistake to tell Marieke Bono was in love with her when he himself had no real evidence of that. This mystifying sex story adds to the confusion- if Bono really does love her, why hasn’t he come down to the stadium to see her yet? Whatever Bono’s feeling, Larry can tell that it would be dangerous to let Marieke near him. She’s too excited, too out of control- Larry is terrified to see what she’ll do with him.

       He tries to give it to her straight, staring squarely into her eye. “Marieke… I don’t think Bono loves you.”

       The breath whooshes out of me. “How could you say that? You’re the one who told me he loved me in the first place.”

       “I- I just don’t think he meant what he did last night.”

       “You weren’t there! It wasn’t you that he made love with.”

       Larry cringes. “Please, Marieke- I think it would be better for you if you just stayed away from him for a while.”

       “I can get as close to him as I damn well please!” I spit. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Larry. It’s not you he loves, it’s me. Or maybe you’re just jealous.”

       I can see his eyes change at that, and I’m convinced I’ve hit the right spot. Larry must still love me, even when he said he didn’t. He only wants me to stay away from Bono so he can have me all to himself. Larry is trying to speak, but I silence him, waving my hand.

       “You stay away from me! I don’t want you, I want Bono.”

       “That’s not-“

       I stalk out.

         At the moment Marieke is talking to Larry, Bono is arriving at Sydney Football Stadium with Jack. He feels a tug when Jack leaves his side- there goes his support. Bono tries to plaster on a normal face and go to soundcheck.

       On the way to the stage, Bono is stopped to congratulate Adam on his recovery. He spies Edge out of the corner of his eye, tuning his guitar. Sensing that Bono isn’t in a good mood, Adam makes himself sparse while Edge slowly turns his eyes onto Bono. With one glance, he can see he is not alright. “Hey, Bono, come over here.”

       Bono obeys blindly, sitting down to rest his leg. Edge gazes into his blue eyes, surprised that Bono hasn’t put shades on over them yet. “Are you feeling better?”

         “No, I’m not, and you know it,” Bono sighs. “I feel like shit.”

         “Should you get some medicine?”

       Bono has to admire Edge, always looking out for him. He sighs again. “No, it’s not that kind of sick.”

       “Ah.” Edge plucks a guitar string. “Do you want to talk about it?”

       Bono opens his mouth to pour out the whole story, but something stops inside him. He shakes his head forcefully. “No… no, I just… I can’t.”

         Edge stares down at Bono, and has a feeling he knows what it’s about. “I hope you get everything figured out. We have a huge show to play tonight.”

       “I know,” Bono says. He gets to his feet, a lump sticking in his throat. “If I don’t show up it’s because I’ve died of nervousness.”

       Edge laughs. “Dying for an unworthy cause. What could be worse?”

         _Having sex for an unworthy cause,_ Bono thinks, but he doesn’t say it.

         For the rest of the day I don’t see Bono. After my talk with Larry I go to eat lunch, and spend the rest of the day holed up in my hotel room trying to write the perfect speech for tonight. As tonight’s concert will be filmed, I have to think of something perfect, a summing-up of the entire Zoo TV experience.

       By showtime I’ve experienced a miserable failure. I have no idea who MacPhisto’s going to call or what he will say. All that can come out of my pencil are love sentiments to Bono. Maybe if I shut my brain off for a while… I take my non-produced script and walk down to the stadium, where people are lining up to get in. Excitement trickles through me, laced with a sense of finality- this is it. This is the moment we’ve all been waiting for- a filmed Zoo TV show.

       As soon as I get backstage, I am assaulted with the sweet sight of Bono, the first glimpse I have had all day of him. And to make things even better, he’s using his MacPhisto accent! My work here is done.

       “Now it’s time for me to go, to confer, converse, and otherwise hobnob with my fellow celebrities. But I leave these three- the scarecrow, the Tin Man, and The Edge- to rule in my place until such time as I return.”

       I could swoon. That’s perfect! But-

       “No,” I say swinging past Bono to sit down.

       He looks at me, and I can see confusion in his blue eyes. Heat seems to crackle between us like electricity. “What’s wrong with it, Marieke?”

       I force my smile at him down. “Why would you mention the other band members? For the last time, MacPhisto is not you!”

       Bono sighs wearily. “All right, Marieke.” I know he’s just acting like this because there are people around. If we were alone he’d have his hands all over me. Bono starts reading ideas again, and I applaud. This is going to be the best MacPhisto speech ever, and I didn’t even write it.

       It is decided that Bono can’t memorize all the words in time, so a Teleprompter is set up on the stage floor. I wait impatiently for some alone time with Bono. It never comes. The rest of the band enters and they all socialize without a glance my way. Everyone’s pumped, but my face falls. Why hasn’t Bono made contact with me yet?

       However, I’m not crestfallen for long. U2 takes the stage in no time and, as Bono is pushed into the elevator up to the stage, his eyes linger on me. Suddenly he darts forward, whispering in my ear.

       “Come to my room tonight after the show.”

       His room?! This can only mean one thing- Bono wants to have sex with me again! But how am I to obtain his key? Ah, I’ll worry about that later… The elevator zooms up, carrying Bono away, and I sigh to myself. This is shaping up to be the best tour leg ever.

       The concert is rip-roaring, with U2 looking- and acting- their best for the cameras. There are amazing performances of newer songs from the 90’s, such as The Fly. Once Zoo Station finishes, The Fly goes to get his black guitar while Larry’s drums start the song. Suddenly Edge rips into the riff, and words begin flashing across the screens. EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS WRONG. SILENCE=DEATH. The majority of these words go by too fast for me to read them clearly.

       “It’s no secret that the stars are falling from the sky,” sings The Fly. “It’s no secret that our world is in darkness tonight. They say the sun is sometimes eclipsed by a moon… you know I don’t see her when she walks in the room.”

       I feel like the moon, eclipsing Bono’s love for Ali into nonexistence. Words bombard the audience and myself as The Fly continues with, “It’s no secret that a friend is someone who lets you help… it’s no secret that a liar won’t believe anyone else. They say a secret is something you tell another person… so I’m telling you, child…”

       My rocking out ceases for a brief moment as Edge’s hands fly up to grip his microphone and sing “Loooove…” in his perfect falsetto. The words BE GENTLE WITH ME appear on the screen behind him- a perfect match, as Edge’s eyes are dreamy and staring off into the distance at something I can’t see.

       “We shine like a burning star, falling form the sky…”

       “A man will beg, and a man will crawl!” The Fly shouts. “On the sheer face of love like a fly from a wall! It’s no secret at all!”

       Funny, but every Achtung Baby and Zooropa song they’ve played since last night has been reminding me of myself and Bono. Some of The Fly’s lyrics sound so dead-on, it’s frightening, especially considering I wasn’t a part of Bono’s life when he wrote the album.

       “It’s no secret that a conscience can sometimes be a pest,” The Fly tells us all. God, but his mouth… the way it moves… I stop myself and shake off the thought. That mouth will be yours tonight, just you wait.

       “It’s no secret that ambition bites the nails of success… Every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief. All kill their inspiration and sing about the grief.” My favorite lines! “Oh, love…” The Fly sounds ready to start the chorus, but The Edge has other ideas. “We shine like a burning star, falling from the sky…”

     “A man will beg, and a man will fall, from the sheer face of love like a fly from a wall… it’s no secret at all!” The Fly cries, and suddenly- “Achtung down under!” He throws himself away from the microphone, shaking that leather-encased body until he’s backed up away from the stand while Edge begins some of the best guitarwork I have ever heard from him. The solo’s highest notes crack my soul. More comprehensible phrases fly up on the screens- MOCK THE DEVIL AND HE WILL FLEE FROM THEE. A FRIEND IS SOMEONE WHO LETS YOU HELP.

       Finally the solo ends, and I’m left panting from moving around. Edge’s hands on the guitar, however, do not stop warping the sound as he sings, “Looove, we shine like a burning star, falling form the sky… toniiiight… love…”

       “A man will beg!” The Fly sings. “And a man will crawl! On the sheer face of love, like a fly from a wall! It’s no secret at all!” The song continues, coming closer and closer to its conclusion. I can feel myself starting to wind down.

       “It’s no secret that the stars are falling from the sky… the universe exploding cause of one man’s lie. Look, I gotta go, I’m running out of change. There’s a lot of things if I could I rearrange. YEAH!” The soul-shaking bellow rocks the floor, and Edge leaps into the air, sounding out some ringing, spooky notes. The Fly grabs at the microphone again. “Yeah! Oh yeah…” He jerks it towards him as Larry drums fiercely, finally ending the song with a crash. Damn it, The Fly is just such a good song to rock out to.

       Not only is newer material played, passionately and pleasing the crowd, but U2 proves later tonight that they’re still the band I fell in love with in the 80’s. Running To Stand Still has just ended out on the B stage, and Bono slips past me in the darkness to dress again. Despite that pleasurable temptation, I end up watching the performance, transfixed. An organ begins to play, softly, and I steel myself for what’s coming. All the screens turn red, drenched in blood. Even after seeing this so many nights, it never fails to bring tears to my eyes and a gasp to my throat.

       Larry hits the cymbals, under the protection of shadow, and Edge plucks out a few notes as if deciding which ones to play. I know as well as he does what’s going to happen next.

       There are no words to describe the riff for Where The Streets Have No Name as it kicks into the organ, beginning the song on a heavily delayed guitar piece, nothing more. Words simply fail me to say anything but “beautiful” at this point in the show. Every single damn time I choke up, remembering the first time I heard this song in my life. If Heaven is real, it sounds like Where The Streets Have No Name, and I want to go there.

       Adam and Larry kick in with the driving bass and rocking drums, and I reach my arms out to them, Gods of the Earth. Edge is playing the song by heart, not even having to think about it anymore. I let myself collapse to my knees, and that’s when Bono brushes past me, walking onstage. The audience cheers when they see him. Flooded with stage lights, Bono lets himself smile at the crowd while the screens flicker onto old Joshua Tree era footage, flashing us back, and his mouth opens wide-

       “I wanna run!” I breathe a sigh for the vocals having come in, as I always do, even when listening to the album. “I want to hide… I wanna tear down the walls that hold me inside!” He swings backwards with the mic stand. “I wanna reach out and touch the flame… Where the streets have no name.” Bono breathes in deeply, surveying the crowd, who are bouncing up and down, every single one of them on their feet.

       “I wanna feel sunlight on my face.” He pulls his hands up and makes a motion of something hitting him in the head. “I see the dust clouds disappear without a trace…” Clouds lift from inside me too, sending me up high in a pinnacle of pleasure. This song is like sex. “I want to take shelter from the poison rain… Where the streets have no name.” Bono smiles at the audience, at Edge, at Adam, at all of us. And the chorus breaks in.

     “Where the streets have no name!” Edge is practically dancing, backing Bono up. “Where the streets have no name! Still building, then burning down love!” I take particular notice in the way Bono’s bending over himself, crying out these words. “Burning down love! And when I go there, I go there with you…” I almost expect him to wink. “It’s all I can do.”

       Bono yanks the microphone off the stand and jumps down to the very front of the audience.

       “The city’s aflood!” he growls. “And out love turns to rust! We’re beaten and blown by the wind, trampled in dust…” I admire the way Bono dances backwards, holding out one leg. That man sure can move- at least when he’s onstage, definitely not in clubs!

       “I’ll show you a place, high on desert plains…” We all strain forward, begging Bono to take us there. He whirls around and shouts to the video screen, “Hey you!” Conveniently, the man on the screen turns around- it’s Bono from 1987, looking serious and confused. The new Bono of 1993 gives him a big, cheesy wave. “Where the streets have no name!” My heart melts to the ground at that gesture, a kiss-off to the past. Dream out loud.

       “Where the streets have no name! Where the streets have no name! Still building, then burning down love! Burning down love! And when I go there, I go there with you…

       “It’s all I can do!” Bono yells joyfully, and takes off running down the stage as Edge’s guitar shreds.

       He jumps up at the very end of the stage and stands out over the crowd. The rest of the band comes back in, and Bono emotes in a high voice, “Ohhhh, ohhhhh, oh… whoah, ohhh, oh-oh.” His voice is filled with passion, and tries a higher note. “Ohhhh, ohhhhh, oh! Whoah-ohhhh!” This is so beautiful it beats me into the ground.

       “Where the streets have no name! Where the streets have no name! Still building, then burning down love! Burning down love!” Bono eyes the crowd. “And when I go there, I go there with you…” I can feel the song winding down.

       “It’s all I can do.” That last line is breathed out into the warm night air. I’m a mess, not even trying to pick myself up off the floor. Bono stares at the audience, who are still screaming, and I catch a flicker of the 1987 Bono in him. He looks staggered at this response, and lifts a hand. “Oh, love… oh, my love…” The fans are wild. U2 eases gently out of the song, but not before Bono gets one last word in. “I wanna go there with yooooouu!” And as the final touch, the screens fill with an image of the band from 1987- the clever, serious band, who are still present beneath Zoo TV’s surface if you chip away enough. I weep, less for myself than for this band, who at the end of the day are the only thing in the world I love more than myself.

       After Pride, it’s time to dress MacPhisto for an exciting encore. I can’t wait to see how he’ll pull off that badass speech. Once Bono has his pants off, I start to fold them, but think wisely and check the pockets first. There’s a room key in them- room key, singular. I guess if I knock on Bono’s door, he’ll let me in tonight. Frankly, I can’t wait to have him for myself again.

     Daddy’s Gonna Pay For Your Crashed Car is performed with vigor, MacPhisto wildly crazed- but I can’t help but feel sorry for poor Adam, who is startled when the cannons go off and jumps. I guess he’s not fully recovered from yesterday…

       “Daddy’s gonna pay…” MacPhisto sighs, fingers on his free hand twisting together. “For your… crashed…” The wind blows a loose piece of hair across his forehead. He smiles a little, breathing the last word. “Car…” And before anyone can react, his hands come together, beating the microphone.

       “Look what you’ve done to me,” he sighs, not in the least bit sorry for it. “You’ve made me very famous, and for that I thank you.”

       MacPhisto bends over half way to read the script scrolling on the Teleprompter on the floor. It’s a shame he couldn’t have memorized the full thing in time…

       “I know you like your pop stars to be exciting, so I bought… these.” The crowd cheers as the shoes come into view. I myself do not even have to look at the screen to know what ‘these’ are.

       Now MacPhisto launches into the true speech, the one that I had barely any hand in writing- but the one that I love dearly, even if I haven’t heard the entire thing.

       “My time among you is almost at an end,” MacPhisto says, pulling his jacket around himself. “The glory that is Zoo TV must ascend and take its place among all the other satellites.” These are sad words indeed.

       However, I brighten when MacPhisto adds, “But don’t fear, for I’ll be watching you! I leave behind video cameras for each of you.” The audience cheers and MacPhisto smiles.

       “So many listening tonight I…have a list,” he continues, sucking in a breath through his nose and staring down at the floor. “People of America… shush,” he tells the noisy crowd, with a wave of his hand. Every fan obeys.

       “People of America, I gave you Bill Clinton, I put him on CNN, NBC, C-SPAN... Too tall to be a despot, but watch him closely.” The Devil snickers under his breath.

       “People of Asia, your time is coming. Without your tiny transistors, none of this would be possible.” MacPhisto glances about himself, seeming to find these words inadequate to describe everything we have done for him.

       “People of Europe, when I came among you, you were squabbling like children- now you’re all hooked up to one cable… as close together as stations on a dial. People of the former Soviet Union, I’ve given you capitalism, so now you can all be as wealthy and as glamorous as me.” Suddenly I’m the one snickering. A burble of my humor escapes in a snort.

       “People of Sarajevo,” MacPhisto continues, almost maliciously, “count your blessings- there are those all over the world who have food, heat, and security, but they’re not on TV like you are!” Okay, that’s pushing it a bit too far… but I still like it. MacPhisto now dashes into his real speech- the goodbyes.

       “Frank Sinatra, I give you MTV, demographic- you’re welcome! Salman Rushdie, I give you decibels!” I wonder what Salman could possibly need decibels for.

       “Goodbye, Squidgy, I hope they give you Wales!” Me too… whatever that means.

       “Goodbye Michael-“ MacPhisto looks like he’s about to say more, but closes his mouth. “Goodbye to all you Neo-Nazis, I hope they give you Auschwitz!” With that, the Devilish speech is over. And that is why I love the man so much.

       With the speech done with, MacPhisto moves on to more important things- namely, the phone call. “Around about this time I often make a telephone call,” he begins, and I sigh in exasperation- I told him from the very start not to use these lines! “Sometimes to the President of the United States, but not- not tonight. Tonight I’m going to call a taxi to take me home,” he tells the audience, strolling to the end of the stage and tacking on “…cause I’m tired,” as an afterthought.

       Well-known beeping fills the air as MacPhisto stabs at the numbers. He picks up the shining silver receiver and holds it to his ear as the other end rings.

       “Hello, thank you for calling Taxis Australia…”

       “Hello, my name is Mr. MacPhisto, and I’m looking for a taxi to take me from Sydney Football Stadium-“

     Unfortunately the woman on the other end cuts in much too quickly. “Right, okay sir… What’s your name?”

     “My name is Mr. MacPhisto!” the Devil announces. “And what is your name?”

       Complete and utter silence.

       “…Hello?” MacPhisto’s hope leaves him. The other end begins to beep rhythmically. Gloomily, MacPhisto opens his mouth. “Show me the way to go home… I’m tired and I want to go to bed… I had a little drink about an hour ago, and it’s gone… right… to… my.. head…”

     Sirens wail, signaling Lemon’s beginning. Oh yes! As MacPhisto begins his spinning, I begin to grow excited. When this ends, we’ll see what happens during With or Without You…

       “A man build a city, with banks and cathedrals… a man melts the sand so he can see the world outside…”

       But to my disappointment, when With or Without You begins MacPhisto doesn’t even glance my way. He’s utterly absorbed in the camera, not me. I begin to have doubts- NO. Stop right there. He loves you- both Bono and MacPhisto. Keep your hopes up. For Heaven’s sake, he wants you in his room tonight! I console myself by remembering how the show is being filmed tonight- of course MacPhisto would want to focus on the cameras more than the fans.

       Love Is Blindness… I almost expect MacPhisto to make a wild dash from the B stage to me, but instead he beckons a pretty blond woman up. I console myself with thoughts of the love we shared last night… and what’s going to top it tonight after the show.

       At the final song, I can’t take it anymore and leave the area. No one notices me exiting the stadium. Here I’ll wait until U2 is done playing.

      MacPhisto walks offstage, sweating, and becomes Bono suddenly, his eyes searching for Marieke. Not here. Where has she gone- in the other dressing room? Bono is thankful for that. He needs to discuss what happened last night without people clamoring to get into his room. Bono ignores the fact that he has no idea what he will say to Marieke when he does get a chance to sit down and talk to her.

       When I see the limo leaving, I know U2 has safely gotten out. Bono will most likely return to the hotel, waiting for me. I will walk there on my own two feet- give Bono some time to get things ready. Granted, the only two times I’ve had sex, neither my partner nor I was prepared at all, but whatever- I’m ready now, and am barely holding myself down from chasing after that limo.

                                               ***

       Bono arrives at his hotel room with nervousness still rushing through his veins. When Marieke comes in, what will she be expecting- more love to be made? Or does she know she’s got a punishment coming? If Bono can bring himself to punish her… Strung out, he puts a CD into the player to calm himself down. She’s just a woman… you can resist…

     I ride the elevator up to Bono’s suite, impatient. My body is ready, invigorated by my nighttime walk, and now it’s craving Bono. That one night was not enough. I have to have him again, and this time I will not let him get away. We’ll lie in bed and make love until dawn.

       Finally, finally, my feet take me to the door of the suite. I knock harshly, trying to stop my hand from shaking. Slowly but surely, the door creaks open, revealing Bono’s beautiful face, unshielded by the Fly glasses. I waltz in, keeping my mouth shut. I’ll be a gentlewoman and let him speak.

       “Marieke.” The voice is tired and worn out. “Have a seat.”

       I sit myself down on the bed and pat the spot next to me. Bono doesn’t take the bait. He stands, hovering in front of me. I notice the music- Acrobat is playing on Achtung Baby somewhere nearby.

       “We… we need to talk,” Bono tells me.

       “No kidding,” I say, thinking of last night. “We need to do more than that.”

     He looks at me like I’m a wackjob, or have three heads or something.

       “What?”

       Bono sighs, reaches for his pocket, but pulls his hand back at the last minute. “I just need to talk to you, Marieke. About what happened last night. I-“

       And at once it’s all too much for me to take. Bono’s _right there,_ looking handsomer than ever, and we’re in his room already… Forget the talk. I leap up and slide over to him. “Open your mouth and close your eyes and you will get a big surprise.”

       He doesn’t obey, but he doesn’t resist either. Without further ado, I pull myself closer and our lips meet. Suddenly I can’t stop. My caution and reservation has been thrown to the wind. I push Bono back, adrenaline kicking through my veins, and Acrobat reaches its intense solo. I press myself so close to him, leaving no space for dust between our bodies, and force my tongue into his warm mouth… and I can feel in his body that he wants me, I can feel the change, and I’m blind to everything but the maddening lust…

       Bono has frozen in place. He can’t even move his arms to wrap around Marieke… She’s attacking him brutally with love. Her tongue feels like acidic chemicals, like the scorch of coffee, drunk before it’s cooled down. He curses his body for betraying his desire. He doesn’t _want_ to do it. Full aware now, Bono realizes what’s happening. This is not like last night… No. This. Is. Wrong.

       And-

       Hands are pushing me off- Bono’s hands? No, they can’t be Bono’s hands, for he’s always been so gentle with me… nothing like these hands, which force me away, disconnect my iron grip, and firmly shove against me to get away… I blink, startled. Bono is backing away towards the wall.

       “Marieke.” His voice is like nothing I’ve ever heard. To my shock, it’s full of cold, icy anger.

         “Bono?”

       The song ends. In the space of time between it and Love Is Blindness, Bono points to the door.

     “You’re over the line. Get out.”

       “What?”

       “Marieke.” He exhales furiously, maintaining a strong grip on his control. I shrink back. Suddenly Bono can’t help himself, and screams. “MARIEKE! For fuck’s sake, I never once was in love with you! Never! Now GET OUT OF HERE! And don’t even think of coming back!”

       What? He… he doesn’t love me? Bono… doesn’t… love… me? But what about- what about-

         “ _GET OUT!!!”_

       I figure I better do as he says and hightail it out before my emotions can betray myself. I leave Bono there, standing against the bed, and rush out the door.

       Riding down the elevator, my first thought is _It can’t be true. We had sex. And Larry said…_ Slowly, however, this is replaced by _Did I seduce him? Was it my stupid body all along?_ And next- _He doesn’t love me! If he loved me, he wouldn’t have sent me away._

I remember how Eric left the tour after my birthday party. Now I can finally understand his reasoning. I know when I’m not wanted. The elevator doors open, and I run to my room. Tears are gathering, and I don’t want anyone to catch me losing it.

       Once inside, the sobs burst forth, and I fall to my knees. I’m sure it’s possible for me to just lie here until something happens- death comes to collect me, maybe, or Bono comes rushing in saying that he didn’t mean it- But that will never happen. I’m in such shock from the whole ordeal that it takes me a while before I remember to get off the floor. There’s work to be done.

       Unable to stop the tears, I pack up my suitcase and flee, not even bothering to close the door behind me. I don’t stop running until the lobby has flashed past me and I’m out on the warm streets of Sydney, attracting odd looks from the passersby. I’m too tired and broken to care. The lights of passing cars all blur in my vision, until finally I have to stop, leaning against a brick wall. Neon lights glow overhead, advertising a bar. I burst in through the doors, hoping to find slow service. That is what I find.

       “Hey, miss, can I help you?” The bartender gives me a sideways glance. He has every right to look- I’m sure my face is a mess. “I’m closing up for the night.” My breathing still hasn’t gone back to normal, and so I speak through a gasp- “Get me something strong, please.”

       A glass is slid in front of me, and I down the contents quickly, waiting to calm down and think reasonably. The bartender cleans up around me, stealing glances every so often. We’re the only two people in the building. I order another drink.

       After he hands it over, the bartender says, “What happened to you, miss- had a fight with your boyfriend?” Oh wouldn’t that be lovely? I shake my head. “Someone just broke my heart, that’s all.” He takes the drained glass from me and starts to put it away. I change my mind- “Get me another one.” I have the money- I can pay for it. Three drinks are all it will take.

       The bartender watches me curiously as I sip. “Moving out, are you?” he asks, indicating the suitcase by my leg. I shrug. “I guess you could call it that.” The alcohol flies to my head, getting me more talkative. The bartender pretends to look down, but I can see his eyes are focused on my chest.

       I stand up, causing him to back away, a bit startled.

       “Do you have a phone in here?”

       “Yeah, of course, miss. Do you-“

       “I need to make a call,” I say, as calm as ever. He points to a door. “Don’t make it too long- I told you, we’re supposed to be closed.”

       I wander into the room he’s showed me to and shut the door. The phone hangs on a wall nearby. I take the receiver out of its cradle and dial my number by memory.

       “Hello?” Her voice carries through loud and clear.

       “Hello, Lina,” I say, still neutral. “I want to return home.”

       With that, my threads come undone, and another gush of tears issues forth- jeez, for the third time today… Lina starts crying when I do, so we bawl to each other over the phone. It’s pretty pathetic.

       “Why haven’t you _called?”_

“It was all a mistake. Lina, I want to come home. I’m so sorry for leaving you.”

       Silence fills us on both ends, and I can hear Lina trying to get control- “I’m sorry, there’s no excuse.”

       “Hey, I miss you too…”

       “I can’t even blame it on the pregnancy anymore.”

   _WHAT?!_

My ears almost fail to register what’s just been said. However, my mouth loosens enough to ask, “What… pregnancy?”

       Lina pauses, and sighs. “Oh, you left before it happened. You know how before I broke up with Herman, I let him do me? Well, it turned out that I got pregnant from that. At least, I’m pretty sure it was from that.”

       I’m silent, thinking it over. Now everything makes sense- her strange stomachache, the lack of a period, maybe even some of her emotional fits when I returned from Zooropa. All that time there was a baby growing inside her, and neither of us had any idea.

       “Did you-“

       “Yes. Obviously.” Obviously indeed… Lina has always been terrified of getting pregnant. _So why didn’t she use protection THAT time?!_ “You don’t regret it, do you?”

       “Definitely not.” The tone of Lina’s voice sounds to me like there’s more to the story.

       “But… getting the abortion cost a lot, Marieke.”

     “Oh God,” I breathe, understanding what she means in a heartbeat. “You can’t…”

       “I still don’t have a job,” Lina says. “I’m trying to pay everything I owe, but…” She pauses, maybe composing herself, before declaring, “Marieke, PLEASE COME BACK.”

       That’s too easy. “I will, Lina. I’ll catch a plane tonight.”

       Her voice sounds skeptical. “The tour hasn’t ended yet…?”

       “No.” An ache grows in me. “I want to leave. I miss Rotterdam. They don’t want me around here anyway. My job is done.” Given the way Bono had written his speech all by himself tonight, and it turned out excellent, these words can be no truer.

       I lean into the phone. “I promise, I will atone for all my mistakes. We’ll get through it, Lina- you and I.”

       “Thank you. Oh my God, thank you.”

       “I promise,” I murmur again before we hang up.

       Back in the main room, I can tell from the slightly guilty look on the bartender’s face that he was listening in on my conversation. “Can you drive me to the airport?”

       “Sure,” he answers, eyes flickering away from my face.

       I cross my arms. “And don’t even think about that.”

       “Man.” He chuckles and goes to get his car keys. “You’re sharp.”

       “Only when I’m drunk,” I say.

       And I’m back at square one.


	42. Disappearing Act

             I can barely sleep on my long flight home. I know it’s crucial that I rest up, as we’re crossing time zones and I don’t want to conk out as soon as I arrive in Rotterdam, but my mind will not shut up. It goes off running with plans for the future, none of them Zoo related. At last I get a chance to think long and hard about my time on the tour and what it- and everyone I met- meant to me.

       When I first became personally acquainted with U2, I was still a girl at heart. For a few days everything was glitz and glamor and shell-shock. Then it shifted when I grew accustomed to the crew and the band- my family in Zoo. They had accepted me, given me a job, and I had fallen fast for a man I couldn’t have. I can’t put all the blame on Bono, though- the world of Zoo TV really did corrupt me, take over my mind. It felt as I’d been working there for my entire life.

       And I’d hurt a lot of people along the way, during the transition from Zooropa to Zoomerang. Eric is the first one I can think of. He’d had a crush on me just as I had a crush on Bono, and a kiss had ended the relationship. But when he tried to apologize, the truth shinning from every pore, I took my frustration out on him and ruined his life.

       I’d wreaked quite a lot of havoc in Larry’s life too- because of one bad decision on my part, I ended up forcing him into an engagement that meant little to him. No wonder he wanted me to pursue Bono in the end- it was all probably based on a hope that I would feel the pain of what had happened to him and Eric, and hoping that I would leave the tour. Because, really, that story about Bono loving me had to be bullshit.

      My one close friend, the only one who really understood me on the tour, was Jack. And what have I done to him? While he put up with every one of my faults, I tossed him like an old boyfriend once he said one thing to offend me. Out of all the crew, it is Jack I will miss the most. He was only trying to help, throughout everything I’ve ever done.

       And Bono…

       I can’t figure out our night. Did he actually know what he was doing, or was he drunk off the performance high? Was it MacPhisto that took over his body, leaving reason behind as the Devil pulled me aside? Or maybe… was the whole thing just because he was lonely?’

     Whatever the reason, I can see now in my crystal-clear thoughts that Bono never truly loved me. There was attraction, definitely, but all his love was reserved for Ali. Despite it all, I can’t hate her, not anymore. She was always the perfect match for him. I should have seen that right from the start.

       I write letters to them, letters that may never be sent, but containing words that I have to get out. I’ll do my best to find the addresses.

       _Dear Eric,_

_I hope you haven’t thrown this away after seeing the name I’m sure to put on the envelope, if this ever gets sent. All I want to say is, I was being a complete bitch when I kissed you at the birthday party. To tell the truth, I was honestly hoping someone would walk in on us so I could tell that foolish lie about you assaulting me. I’m sorry, Eric. I never thought through my actions._

_I hope your life in Miami is going well and that you haven’t been thinking about me very much. You know I don’t love you, and I never can or will. Again, I’m sorry. Sometimes I wish it was different. Please forget about me, or find me in someone else. We’re no good for each other._

_Don’t think I’m writing this out of pity or because someone forced me to. As I write, I am on a plane bound for Rotterdam. Let’s just say that I’m leaving the tour in a similar fashion to you._

_Best of luck,_

_Marieke Lang_

_Dear Larry,_

_You probably know by now that I have left Zoo TV, and, if Bono’s been talking to you, you probably know why. I’m not angry at you for urging me onwards. I shouldn’t have fallen for it in the first place, but I was blind to everything but my own wants. I’m not accusing you of lying to me, though- you could have said anything about Bono and I would believe it._

_I have to confess- after that night we spent together in London, I harbored some small affectionate feelings towards you, whereas you instantly brushed me off and chalked it up to temptation. If it hadn’t been for Bono, I know I could have learned to love you, Larry. It just took some time. I’m sure you’re happy to be getting married to Ann, but I regret playing any part in your decision. It shouldn’t have been me who taught you the meaning of true love. It should have been her. And if you don’t invite me to the wedding, I’ll understand. I hope you’re sure you’ve gotten over me._

_Have fun on the rest of the tour- or, if this reaches you after it ends, have fun with your loved one. Keep on drumming your heart out._

_Sincerely,_

_Marieke Lang_

_Beste_ _Jack,_  
        Ik weet zeker dat tegen de tijd dat deze brief u bereikt, je hebt gehoord heb ik de tour verlaten. Ik schrijf dit op een vliegtuig terug naar huis, eigenlijk. Grappig hoe dingen gebeuren ... Hoe dan ook, het hele verhaal is dat Bono me uitgenodigd naar zijn kamer om te praten over iets, en ik lees te veel in de uitnodiging en kuste hem. Hij gooide me uit, en nu ben ik hier. Ik weet dat ze me niet willen niet meer rond. Eerlijk gezegd, kan Bono doe mijn werk beter dan ik kan.  
        Maar wacht, dat is echt niet het hele verhaal. Ik heb geen kus hem uit de lucht vallen. Ik had reden om te geloven dat hij wilde seks met mij. Weet je waarom? Omdat we eigenlijk hadden seks hadden de avond tevoren. Ik zie je geschokte uitdrukking in mijn hoofd nu.  
        Maar het eindigde betekenis niets, Jack, en dat is waarom ik naar huis gebonden. Ik kan daar niet vinden romantische liefde op tour. Ik moet ergens anders gaan zoeken naar dat.  
        Dank u voor het zijn mijn beste vriend op de Zoo TV tour. Serieus, je hielp me door enkele goede tijden en slechte tijden met genoeg geduld om iemand af te maken, Ben ik de ophef waard? Ik weet dat ik zeker als de hel was het niet waard, helemaal. Kijk eens wat ik je heb aangedaan, genegeerd jullie allemaal vanwege een klein vergrijp, dat op de lange termijn, niets betekende. Het spijt me, Jack. Ik hou van je, maar niet op die manier.  
        Ik hoop dat je veilig terug naar Edinburgh en geniet van uw tijd met Charm. Ze is een mooie vrouw, zeer verdienstelijke van je. Hoewel soms denk ik niemand verdient je. Ik weet dat ik niet. Je bent een stuk boven het gemiddelde bemanningslid, dat is zeker.  
        Liefde,  
        Marieke Lang

_Bono,_

_As I write, I am sitting on a plane headed to Rotterdam. You of all the people on tour know why. I guess this is my official letter of resignation._

_Bono, I have to tell you the truth, from the very start. Ever since the Lisbon show, I fancied myself in love with you. It began as a crush, and the more I spent around you- the more human-like you became to me- the more I fell in love. By the Nijmegen show I wanted to have sex with you. By the Zoomerang leg I was convinced you felt the same way for me. Now I see that you never did. You’ve always loved Ali, and I can understand that. She’s more beautiful and much wiser than me anyhow._

_I’m sure you don’t know the story about Bologna. Something happened there that changed my mind on the way you feel about me forever. You know the night you got drunk and Jack took you home? Well, it wasn’t Jack. It was me. I took you outside, called a taxi, and we rode home without you remembering any of it. And I told you I loved you. And you kissed me. It’s true. You kissed me, without thinking of the consequences. Does any of this ring a bell? I’m telling you, it really happened._

_Here’s a question I would like to ask you- what happened last night, in Sydney, when we made love in your dressing room? I know now you weren’t in love with me. So why did you do that? Maybe I wouldn’t have kissed you tonight if you hadn’t led me on like that. But I’m not trying to accuse you._

_Bono, I love you, and I’m sure it will take a long time for that love to fade. It won’t be easy, since you’re on TV and in the news all the time. But I’ll try my best to get over you. I know I can if I put my mind to it. Thank you for sharing one night with me._

_Everything about you is beautiful. Please don’t ever change._

_Ik hou van je,_

_Marieke Lang_

       I reread my letters, ready to revise if necessary. They all seem ready to be mailed. I write another one at the last minute-

       _Dear Bill,_

_Just writing to inform you that you no longer have permission from me to use any of my remarks in your book, including the interview. I don’t want to be remembered as being a part of the Zoo TV crew. I’m ashamed of it. Please remove me from any parts of your draft. Thank you._

_Marieke Lang_

Out of the responses I get to my letters, only one means the most to me, and it says the least-

       _Marieke. You left this in my dressing room in Sydney. B._

Enclosed is my silver bracelet, the M charm removed.


	43. My Wish

       Lina doesn’t know it, but I attend U2’s show in Tokyo- the last act of Zoo TV that the world will ever see- on December 10th. I’m sure she’ll know it when she next takes a look at the money we’ve spent all year. Under the premise that I’m going to visit my parents in Njimegen, I take the money for airline fees and hop on the next plane leaving for Tokyo, determined to get to the show in time.

       It’s a fabulous show, despite being crammed indoors and seeming a little less impressive. Bono is on fire. For understandable reasons, I can’t watch him for very long, but the rest of the band takes up just as good space in my eyes. None of them seem to notice me, or at least they don’t recognize me. It could easily be the latter- I’ve stopped curling my hair since I left the tour, and my eyes have a sort of hardness to them that wasn’t present before.

       At the climax of Where The Streets Have No Name, Bono launches himself off the end of the stage and madly dashes towards the other end, flying through people as if carried by wings. I scream as he pushes his way past me. The energy is infectious. Bono hops back onstage with a huge smile.

       I stand and wait for the encore, the finale of the show- and MacPhisto’s last stand. Who can he be calling tonight? How will it go?

       Daddy’s Gonna Pay for Your Crashed Car begins, and it’s like welcoming back a dear old friend. Of course, the Devil starts out his speech by giving a word of thanks. It surprises me how easily I know how he’s going to deliver each line, how familiar I am with him- after all these days of staying home from the tour, it turns out I was just itching to return. But that can never be, after what has happened between Bono and I…      

       “Oh, Daddy always pays,” MacPhisto sighs. He looks and sounds a bit worn out. “Look what you’ve done to me. Tokyo, look what you’ve done to me! You’ve made me very famous and I thank you…” Blah, blah.

       “I know you like your pop stars to be glamorous, so I bought these.” MacPhisto displays his shoes with less than the pride I’ve seen on his face many times before. “Do you like them?” he murmurs. “You should, you know. Don’t you think rock and roll has come a long way? Yes?” We scream our assent, and a lump grows in my throat. “I do,” MacPhisto agrees. “And it’s taken its toll, let me tell you. On this very tour we’ve had four marriages, fourteen divorces, fifteen babies born; twelve people got arrested, we’ve sacked five people, and one crew member left the entourage to become a Franciscan monk. THANK YOU!”

       Hearing that final countdown and the swells of cheers that break over the Tokyo Dome, I find myself getting very emotional. I wonder if I’m included in that list? Is Eric one of the people they’ve sacked? And are they including Larry’s engagement as a marriage?

       “We’ve met some fine people along the way,” MacPhisto states, looking as nostalgic as I feel, “and… where would we be without our closest friends…” He gestures weakly to the audience to indicate us as his friends. “Uh… before I make a telephone to _my_ closest friend, I’d like to introduce you to my band! On the right here we have Reggie the Dog- The Edge! On the left we have the cat who got the cream, Adam Clayton… and standing behind me, Boy George’s wet dream, Larry Mullen Jr.!”

       The rest of the band smiles- well, not Larry, but I’m used to that. Adam looks pleased and proud to be onstage one last time, and not in a drunken coma. Edge’s smile conveys such warmth. I can tell he’ll have a hard time leaving this place. Larry’s eyes sweep the crowd as if looking for someone. We all hush to hear the ringleader, Mr. MacPhisto, speak.

       “Now, if you’ll excuse me, as… I’m rather tired, I’d like to call… someone I’ve gotten very close with since I came to Tokyo.” Who could it be?

       The handsome Devil punches in the numbers without the usual air of coolness. Now he only radiates a sad, stricken finality. This is the last we will ever see of him, I realize.

       “Hello? I’d like to speak to Madonna.”

       A cheer rises up.

       A recorded message plays. MacPhisto tries again. “Hello? I’d like to speak to Madonna.” The message babbles in Japanese. The Devil grows indignant. “This is Mr. MacPhisto here!... hello?... Hello?... HELLO?!”

       The sirens go off. MacPhisto replaces the telephone with a sigh, but quickly cheers up.

       “Off with the horns, on with the show!” And the horns land backstage, for the last time. MacPhisto turns on his heel and showcases his dancing.

       “A man builds a city…”

       “A man builds a city!”

       “With banks and cathedrals…”

       “With banks and karaoke!”

       _He never, ever needed my help,_ I think suddenly. _He had it made that entire time. He knew what he wanted to say onstage and how. He was just indulging me._

The song slows down. MacPhisto sings softly.

       “Midnight is where the day begins… midnight is where the day begins… midnight…”

       My transition, the one I invented, comes thunking out of Adam’s bass. With or Without You has begun. I hold my breath. Tonight is a performance like no other.

       MacPhisto blows it out of the water. He emits pure pain and anguish from every pore. Strangely enough, the song moves me to the depths of my soul, but I don’t cry. Not even when MacPhisto begins the lyrical outro-

       “And you give. And you give… and you give. And you give. And you give… and you give… and you give… and you give…”

       This goes on for several more phrases, dragging the song out, leading me to believe that there’s a huge surprise coming at the end of this. Will it be the “shine like stars” coda that I enjoy? Or maybe it’s…

       MacPhisto bends over the mic, clutching it in both hands, and wails.

       “Loooove… love will tear us apart, again… loooove… love will tear us apart, again… Looove, love will tear us apart, again… Again.”

       The breath fails me, and I nearly drown surrounded by air as the Japanese fans around me clap. It takes me a moment to come back to myself. My still-dry eyes latch onto MacPhisto.

       Throughout the entirety of Love Is Blindness, I’m amazed at every ounce of emotion put into the performance. This is real. This is MacPhisto at his very best, and it’s taken him till the last show to get to it. When the solo begins, the Devil turns away and scans the audience with cold blue eyes. My hands reach up automatically, breath slowing- my body is moving of its own accord. MacPhisto doesn’t bother to beckon me up- he reaches down into the sea of fans and practically yanks me up, jamming me against his body. I pillow my head on his shoulder, my chin fitting there as if it’s made for me.

       The dance isn’t very intricate. As MacPhisto turns me around in a circle, he touches my hand and places it on my face, scraping the makeup off his cheek with it. I sigh, breathing in the sweet scent of him. MacPhisto closes his eyes, face bunching up, and whispers, “I don’t want to go,” in that old British accent of his. This is shortly followed by “No…” and finally, “Look what you’ve done to me.”

       We pull away. Edge is just finishing the solo. It takes me a while to realize our faces are both streaked with wetness- whether it’s tears or sweat, I can’t say. MacPhisto won’t let go of my hands. Slowly, he brings them upwards, extending the dance for a while longer. We stare into each other’s eyes and sway gently from side to side.

       “Love is blindness,” MacPhisto murmurs in tune. “I don’t want to see. Won’t you wrap the night around me. Take my heart…” We breathe simultaneously.

       “It’s blindness…”

     Without another word, MacPhisto brings my hands all the way up to the sides of my face and, shielding us from the outside view, presses his red lips ever so gently to mine. They taste like makeup and skin. His hands fall and let go of my right one, but the left remains locked in an iron grip.

       “Wise men say,” MacPhisto breathes. I haven’t even noticed the guitar playing softly in the background.

       “Only fools rush in… But I can’t help falling in love with you.”

       Suddenly, the microphone is at my lips. I take it without thinking.

       “Shall I stay?” I sing- my man-voice is finally good for something. “Would it be a sin? If I can’t help falling in love with you…”

       I make to sing the next lines, but MacPhisto moves in, and we end up singing together.

       “Like a river flows to the sea… so it goes, some things were meant to be.”

       He grabs our joined hands and raises them up. I drop out to let the falsetto take over.

       “Take my hand… take my whole life too… But I can’t help falling in love with you.”

       The Devil looks at me, and at once I see both of the men that I love in the expression, one inside the other.

       “I can’t help falling in love with you…”

     Just when I’m beginning to spy something hidden behind those blue eyes, MacPhisto turns his face away from me.

       “I can’t help falling in love with you.” He lets go of my hand, waves it to the crowd. As the applause grows, MacPhisto- or Bono- sends me back to my spot. A beautiful smile lights up his face. “Thank you, Tokyo. Goodnight.” And the Devil is gone, forever.

         Something small, hard, and cold is clenched in my fist. I force my hand to open, staring down at it. The M-shaped charm from my bracelet blinks back at me. MACPHISTO, it seems to say. The Devil’s last gift to me, originally given by Bono. As the people slowly empty out of the arena, I stand in place, gazing after the stage where MacPhisto has disappeared, taking his eyes filled with meaning and clarity, if only I had thought to look hard enough. I know immediately the answer to my question of did either of them ever love me or not. I know the answer, but I refuse to believe it. When the crewmen come out to dismantle the stage, I bolt. They will recognize me and ask me to stay, and I can’t bear to see another old friend gone.

                                           ***

       “Okay, if I don’t come back before dinnertime, you know what to do, right?”

       I nod. I’ve been making dinner for myself for months now- why _wouldn’t_ I know what to do? A smile- a rare one, an expression that hardly ever touches Lina’s face nowadays- is shot my way. “Have fun being home alone! See you later!” And with that, she makes for the door.

       “Wait,” I say.  

       She stops. “Yes, Marieke, what is it?”

       I start to speak, but shake my head and turn my attention back to the television. Lina sighs. “If you make me ‘wait’ any longer I’ll have gray hair, a _nd_ will have missed my job interview. So please, Marieke, let me go.” She turns the doorknob.

       At once I sit up straighter on the sofa, making Lina cast her eyes back onto me. My own are glued to the TV, so Lina looks too, and heaves another sigh. U2’s video for Lemon is on the screen.

       “It’s been a month,” she reminds me. “A month of watching MTV and eating chocolate on your part. Get over him, Marieke! Get over the whole damn deal. We can’t stay in this flat for very longer, and you have to help me look for a new job with both eyes and ears wide open.”

       She leaves what has already been said unsaid- _Go get a job yourself._ I can’t take my eyes from the screen. MacPhisto is in all his glory, living out the peak of his life captured on film.

       Lina watches the opening shot with me, but at last opens the door. “Get a life, Marieke. I mean, I love you and all, but please forget about Bono.” With that she’s gone, and I am left utterly alone, but not quite, for MacPhisto is onscreen for me.

       I barely look up when Lina’s voice carries through a corridor- “Oh, forgot to mention. Here’s a letter for you.” _Really? From who?_ My ears perk up. Lina slides it through the letter box. “I don’t know who Paul Hewson is, but-“

       PAUL HEWSON?! How can she not know Bono’s real name? I am off the couch and onto the floor in seconds, holding the envelope in my hands. I have to read the return address thrice to be sure. Yep, that’s really Bono- and he’s really sent it to me.

       Ripping open the envelope, I unfold the contents with trembling hands.

       _Dear Marieke,_

_I just got your letter. Thank you for writing to me. It meant a lot. I know my original response back was not the best one out there, so let’s try again. Let’s have the talk we failed to have that night in Sydney._

_Ever since you joined the tour, you’ve been under my nose, a constant person to take care of. That was what you were to me- just another child like my daughters. But you evolved quickly into a young woman, proving yourself worthy with the speeches. Well, okay, it wasn’t only the speeches. Those were good, mind you, but honestly, I could have done it myself. However, what other job could you have held? Wardrobe manager was fine, but- well, I don’t know why I gave you that job, but you did it well and I’m proud._

_It wasn’t until Italy that I began feeling an attraction to you. Thank you for telling me what happened in Bologna. It’s coming back to me in bits and pieces, each day. At least now I know why I feel uneasy every time I see a taxi or a phone booth. I was struggling consciously to remind myself of Ali, and I missed her. Maybe I took it out on you. I can’t be held accountable for what I’ve done under the influence._

_I’ve heard what happened to you in London in Eric, but this story about Larry is all new to me. Dear God, I don’t know what to think. You’ve really done a lot to mess this band up. I don’t want to make you feel bad, though._

_Now it’s time for my little secret. Every night onstage, as I performed the encore of the show in MacPhisto persona, I was engulfed by this wanting. It grew stronger every night as I moved deeper into the mind of my character. Marieke, there’s no doubting this- I felt that I wanted you, I felt attracted to you, and when you were onstage it was unbearable. I lost my mind in Sydney. There’s no doubting that in that dressing room, at that moment, I really did want you._

_But here’s the thing. After that, I came to myself. I realized what I had done. I see that you thought I was in love with you. Why wouldn’t you think that? But it wasn’t me, Marieke. That man was not me. You might say MacPhisto. I’ll agree to that, since I have no other name for him. But hear me out here- that man is dead. I’m alive. You’ll find no romantic love for you in this body._

_I don’t regret your time on tour and was very pleased- and shocked- to see you in the audience in Tokyo. Didn’t you realize you were the rowdiest fan out there? It couldn’t have been anyone but you. But if you ever want to come back, you must sort out your emotions first. I’ve sorted mine out already. Marieke, I don’t and never will love you. As I have no way of knowing how you feel anymore, I hope you agree to this. If you’re still in love, please try to move on. If you’re over me, take this as a word of confirmation._

_I hope this letter brings some relief to you. I really would like to see you next tour._

_Yours truly, Angel of Holland,_

_Paul D. Hewson_

_“Bono”_

       A stillness overtakes me as I finish reading the letter. My hands bring it up to my lips, and I touch it softly, only once. Now I stand and at once rush to the music shelf. My copy of Zooropa, the first one ever printed, is on the bottom of the pile. I slide it out and fold the letter up, tucking it deep inside the album cover.

       I walk to my bed and open the bedside table drawer. Inside, right there on top, is my silver bracelet with the M charm attached. I haven’t been able to wear it since the show in Tokyo. I drop it inside the album as well, and it makes a lump. Kneeling down, I lift my mattress up and conceal the record beneath it.

       My eyes turn back to the television, and the rest of my body follows. The camera is panning out, ending the Lemon video in a shot of MacPhisto, standing and smiling. No matter what anyone says, MacPhisto will always be mine. I turn the TV off.

THE END

 


	44. Epilogue: Afterglow

       The door swings shut. Bono stares blankly at its hard wood, where previously a woman had stood, her beauty undeniable and untouchable. Love Is Blindness begins on the Achtung Baby CD. A chill sinks over the room in the form of those depressing organ notes, settling into Bono’s bones like a damp winter’s cold. He can’t seem to move himself from the bed. Bono’s mind is frozen in place. Slowly, his head falls into his hands.

       Suddenly, in a flash of motion, Bono snaps up from the bed. Love Is Blindness has finished. He yanks to CD out of its player and pulls the door open, wandering through the eerily silent outside hall. The only sound as he travels towards the lift is his footsteps, echoing from wall to wall as if Bono is in a great, airless void. He punches a button by the lift and it rises to meet him. Bono instructs it with more button-punching to go to the floor below him. It obeys.

       A few quiet seconds later, the doors blow open. Bono exits the lift and notices, with a small surging in his heart, that The Edge is also in the hall. Thank God for a sign of life.

       “Hey B-“ Edge begins as the singer catches up with him, but cuts the name short. “Are you okay?”

       Bono stops mid-stride, and Edge stops as well. “Why wouldn’t I be?” His voice sounds strange to his own ears, as if he’s worn his vocal cords out.

       Edge moves. “What’s happened?”

       Shaking his head, Bono glides across the hall. “I…” He has to know. “Have you been to your room yet?”

       “No…” Edge’s concern turns to confusion. “I just got here…”

       Bono leads his way down the corridor and Edge has no choice but to follow. “Where are you going?” Bono’s silence is scaring him.

       Only one door in the hall is open. Bono peeks in, finding no living beings inside. He enters the room cautiously. Besides the disarray of the bedsheets, there’s nothing to suggest that anyone has inhabited it recently.

       Edge halts at the door, reluctant to come in. “This is Marieke’s room,” he points out.

     Bono doesn’t turn around. “I know.”

       The silence is deafening. Finally Edge can’t take it anymore. From the door, he calls, “Bono.”

       His friend doesn’t respond.

       “Has something happened between you and Marieke?”

       Bono wavers for a second, and spins around.

       “She’s gone…”

     Empty spaces surround the two, cutting off circulation.

                                   ***

       The official story is that Marieke left of her own free will, having become bored with tour life. Not one of the crew believes it- how could someone who loved U2 that much have left with no goodbyes or explanations? Rumors spread throughout the entourage- “I bet she had an affair with someone… She and Bono always did seem awfully close… Maybe she knew a secret that none of us do… I wonder if she had anything to do with Adam’s missed night in Sydney?”

       No confirmation is given to any of these rumors, and eventually their threads unravel, leaving behind a cluster of lies and private thoughts. Only an elite few know what really happened to Marieke, and they’re not going to share it with anyone.

       After some pressing from Edge, Bono has finally told the entire story about he and Marieke, including what had happened in the dressing room after the first Sydney show. Sitting on Marieke’s bed- which wasn’t quite Marieke’s bed anymore- the melodic section of U2 had decided that the no one else needed to know about this. “We’ll say Marieke’s quit,” Bono says, which in an outward respect is true- and yet he can’t forgive himself for the words that had driven her away.

         On the band’s last day in Sydney, Bono goes down to the stadium and watches the Zoo crew wrapping their work up on the stage. Most of the set is safely stored in the planes that will take it to New Zealand, the next tour destination. Bono visits the underground one last time, and enters his former dressing room with sweaty palms and a palpitating heart. He isn’t sure what he’s going to find here, in the place where it all went down with Marieke. To his relief, the room is empty, having been cleaned a few moments before.

         A flash of silver catches Bono’s eye on the floor. The blood in his ears pounds so heavily that he can’t hear anything else. He kneels down to pick up the item. It glitters in his hand- Marieke’s silver chain link bracelet, with the charm that Bono himself gave to her attached around one loop. Bono fingers it gently, and slowly removes the gift. The charm was bought with his money all along- now that Marieke is gone, Bono can have it back. But he feels the need to return the rest of the bracelet to Marieke.

       He closes the door behind him.

                                             ***

Upon settling into the Auckland hotel, it is a mere hour before someone knocks on Bono’s door. The singer is startled from his reveries about one trees on hills and Maori wakes, his mind instantly flying to more unpleasant things- the last time someone had urgently knocked on his door, for example. Bono takes the chance and calls, “Come in.”

       Instead of his nightmare, it is Larry who enters, with Adam in tow. Now Bono’s even more surprised, especially when Larry’s the first to speak- “Hey, Bono, can we discuss something with you?”

       Bono allows his friends to sit down and waits warily. “What do you want, guys?”

       Larry seems nervous, but he says, “I want to know what really happened to Marieke. I know she didn’t just leave.”

         Adam nods. “It seemed like you and Edge knew something about her departure that we don’t.”

       “Have you been listening to rumors?” Bono laughs, strangled.

       Larry shakes his head. “I just know Marieke very well.” His eyes pierce Bono, whose instincts tell him to look down, recoil- but he can’t do that, or it will seem suspicious.

       “Did you fire her?” Adam asks.

       “Something like that, yeah,” Bono says, and- “Larry, Adam, you’re two of my closest friends. You know I’ll tell you the truth.” He hopes that their closeness will prevent any misgivings from what he’s about to confide.

       Larry is silent, until his eyes narrow a fraction, and words slip out- “What is the truth?” Adam keeps his blue eyes on Larry, not looking at Bono, who sighs.

     “She kissed me. I threw her out of my room, and I think she took that the wrong way…”

       “Why did she kiss you?” Adam asks, bewildered.

       Bono rubs his fingers along his cheek- “ I’m not- oh, to hell with this,” he gasps. “She’s in love with me. We did something- well, she fell in love with me after one night.”

       “What happened that night?” Larry questions, leaning forward. Bono can tell that somehow he already knows.

       “I- We had sex, okay?” Larry doesn’t look very surprised, though Adam’s face is painted with shock. This should confuse Bono, but it’s too much to comprehend now- “It was a mistake! I wasn’t going to do anything with her the other night. I…”

       “That’s what she told me,” Larry murmurs, quietly.

       All of Bono’s senses zoom in on Larry. “What? Have you been corresponding?”

       “No,” Larry says. “She told me that you guys had sex, the last time we were in Sydney.”

       “What’s going on?” Adam addresses the room- exactly what Bono would like to know. He can’t answer Adam now, though. Something doesn’t seem right about Larry’s story.

       “Why didn’t you tell her then that I couldn’t have meant it?”

       Now Larry finds he’s made a blunder. “Well… I can’t know what you’re thinking, Bono. But I did try to convince her- honestly, I did. You don’t know how hard I tried to get it through her head that you couldn’t possibly have meant it…”

       Bono says nothing, instead staring straight at Larry’s countenance and remembering something from a while ago.

       “Don’t you like her?” he asks suddenly. Adam picks up that thread as well. “Yeah, Larry, I thought you said you had a crush on Marieke…”

       Larry shakes his head hurriedly. “No! I’m over that now.”

       Bono pretends not to hear. “Did you tell her anything about me that would lead her on?”

       Silence comes from Larry- silence and a glare.

       “Did you _want_ me to cheat on Ali?” _You should join the singles fiesta someday, Bono!_ Now Bono knows it wasn’t Adam who meant that, but Larry, all along. “You were the one leading her on, not me!”

       “That’s impossible!” Larry growls, rising slightly from his seat. “You were the one that had sex with her!”

       “Maybe it wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t suggested I wanted to.” Never mind that he had wanted to in the first place. “What would it have gained you, Larry? A ruined marriage on my part, maybe?”

       “I thought you really did love her!” Larry defends himself.

       But Bono has had it. “You need to stop guessing and start asking, Larry! Don’t go feeding Marieke lies based on what you _think._ Don’t you know how she could have taken it?” _How she did take it…_

“Guys-“ Adam tries to say, but is rushed out of the conversation by Larry’s voice raising. He gets to his feet.

       “You _were_ keeping secrets, Bono! I thought I was the only one on tour who-“

       Suddenly he clamps his mouth shut, and a fearful expression runs across his face before he smothers it in a scowl. Bono’s anger drains. He stares at Larry. “The only one on tour who _what?”_

“Liked Marieke,” Larry mumbles, staring out towards the window.

       “But I didn’t like Marieke. The only one _what?”_

“Nothing.” He refuses to meet Bono’s eyes. A jolt goes through the singer.

       “Larry… did you have sex with her too?”

       “WHAT?!” Adam blurts. “Really?”

       “No!” Larry growls. “No, I…” He paces the room. “Swear to God, I didn’t touch her…”

       “Remember, you’re one of my closest friends. I expect you to tell the truth.” Bono and Adam wait with bated breath. Finally Larry gives it up.

       “It was in London, alright? It… it was a mistake. A complete fucking mistake. But she was the one who came to my room first. I had a crush on her then… I don’t anymore.”

       Adam rises and walks over to Larry, who turns his back on the bassist. Bono sighs deeply. Now he understands why Larry proposed to Ann- he didn’t want to be tempted by women again.

       “Why don’t you just get out of here,” he quietly suggests. “I need to think.”

       Larry nods and turns to go, Adam trailing behind. The drummer holds the door open for him, and after Adam’s left with a thin “Bye, Bono…” Larry turns back to the interior room.

       “I only led her on because I… I guess I wanted revenge, of a sort. Things turned upside down when I slept with Marieke. I guess I was very immature in trying to break her heart and yours. I’m sorry, I still don’t know what was going through my head when I told her you loved her. And I swear, at the time it almost seemed like you did.”

       Bono hears Larry, but he can’t respond. He is staring out into the setting sun. Finally, at the instigation of Adam, Larry leaves, wondering what he’s done to this band.

                                        ***

       MacPhisto walks onstage in Auckland with no script- and he still manages to do a great job entertaining the crowd and phoning someone. But there’s a black hole in him, something that won’t be filled up and yet keeps sucking things in. Without Marieke at the sidelines, all is lost.

       In his true form, Bono sends Marieke a letter. He makes it brief, not going into details- _You left this in my dressing room. B._ The silver bracelet has been kept in Bono’s pocket for a while, the attraction too great to let go of. Sometimes he takes it out and gives it a subtle kiss. All the passion that Marieke has formerly inspired is collected in this artifact, a relic from the past. But it is Marieke’s, so Bono must part with it. Once it’s gone- but the charm stays with him- Bono stops thinking about Marieke as often.

       It isn’t until the final night in Zoo that she reappears. From the moment Bono crawls to the front of the stage he can see her- rocking out to Zoo Station with her usual gusto, looking out of place among the conservative Japanese. Bono’s blood runs cold. He wants to jump off the stage to reach her, and the M-shaped charm in his pocket scalds through the fabric.

       He transfers the charm to his gold pants for MacPhisto, and changes hurriedly, wanting to get back out there despite himself. The man who returns is not Bono. He is the Devil, a man with a completely different mentality, and he openly shows his longing for Marieke in every word he sings.

       _I love her…_

The encores wind down. MacPhisto knows it is his last night on Earth. He does not want to leave. _At least,_ he thinks at the sea of faces before launching into With or Without You, _let me take her with me._

       The world blurs. MacPhisto yells wildly into the microphone. “And looove… love will tear us apart… again…” It’s never been truer than now. The love for the fans.. the love for the woman out there… MacPhisto loves everything the Zoo TV Tour has ever brought his way and doesn’t want to let go of it. Once Love Is Blindness begins, he can barely wait for the dance. He knows who he’s going to pull up.

       Rising from the depths of U2 fans, she emerges under his hand, boosting herself up onto the B-stage. MacPhisto allows himself to let go and feel her body. They dance as if it’s the first time. Words spew forth from MacPhisto, but he doesn’t even know what he’s saying. All that matters if he’s standing here with the only woman who ever loved him- and he does not want to give her up.

     The finale of the song brings a kiss to her mouth. She is gasping for a breath, her face streaked with sweat- or maybe it’s tears, MacPhisto can’t be sure. He sees her love for him in her eyes. She can’t be permitted to leave the stage, not yet.

      “Wise men say only fools rush in…”

       He always knew she was a good singer. Why did she never believe it? Sadness overtakes MacPhisto as he sings the last note. _Goodbye, Marieke._ When she leaves, a part of his heart attaches itself to her, embedded in the charm he’s left in her hand. Only when everyone’s backstage and Bono rips off the clothes does he realize fully what has just happened. He no longer loves Marieke- but the Devil sure does. Good thing this is the last time MacPhisto and Marieke will ever see each other..

                                       ***

       It is a relief to be back home and in Ali’s arms. It makes Bono feel even worse for being unfaithful to her on tour. Did she know what happened during the last show- has she heard that he let Marieke sing onstage, that he kissed her lips? No one can tell. Ali doesn’t mention it. In fact, she doesn’t mention much to Bono, for he’s too exhausted to do anything but promptly black out. The tour has taken its toll on him.

       In the morning, Bono wakes unpleasantly- bright and early- and goes to the front window to gather his thoughts. The red flag on the mailbox is up. Taking advantage of the fact that no one else is awake, Bono goes out to get the mail.

       The very first letter- and the most important item in there- is sent from Rotterdam. Bono suddenly has a sinking feeling. He takes it back to the porch to read Marieke’s words. Something aches within him when it’s finished. Everything now makes perfect sense.

       _Marieke, I’m sorry… I don’t love you…_ And he doesn’t. The only time he could ever have loved her is lost.

 

       _Here I am_

_Lost in the light of the moon that comes through my window_

_Bathed in blue_

_The walls of my memory divide the thorns from the roses_

_It’s you and the roses_

_Touch me and I will follow_

_In your afterglow_

_Heal me from all this sorrow_

_As I let you go_

_I will find my way when I see your eyes_

_Now I’m living in your afterglow_

_Here I am_

_Lost in the ashes of time, but who wants tomorrow?_

_In between_

_The longing to hold you again_

_I’m caught in your shadow_

_I’m losing control_

_My mind drifts away_

_We only have today_

_Touch me, and I will follow_

_In your afterglow_

_Heal me from all this sorrow_

_As I let you go_

_I will find my way, I will sacrifice_

_Till the blinding day when I see your eyes_

_Now I’m living_

_In your afterglow_

_When the veils are gone_

_As I let you go_

_As I let you go_

_Touch me and I will follow_

_In your afterglow_

_Heal me from all this sorrow_

_As I let you go_

_I will find my way, I will sacrifice_

_Now I’m living in your afterglow_

_Bathed in blue_

_The walls of my memory divide the thorns from the roses_

_It’s you who’s closest._


End file.
